#a lot of sharp turns in this narrative

[hayatheauthor]

The Anatomy of Punching a Character in the Face

Punching scenes are a staple of action sequences in many genres. Whether it’s an intense brawl, a quick defense, or an emotional outburst, a punch can carry a lot of weight both physically and narratively. As a writer, it’s essential to understand what really happens when a fist meets a face—from the immediate impact to the longer-lasting effects on both the person getting punched and the one throwing the punch.

This guide will help you craft authentic, detailed, and believable punch scenes by exploring different areas of the face, types of punches, and the aftermath of such an impact.

1. Target Areas of the Face and Their Vulnerabilities

A punch isn’t a one-size-fits-all situation. Depending on where the fist lands, the consequences will vary significantly. Different parts of the face have varying levels of vulnerability, and targeting these areas produces different effects, from knockouts to broken bones.

A. Jawline: The Knockout Zone

The jawline is a classic target in many fight scenes, especially when knockout punches are involved. This area is highly vulnerable because a hit here causes the head to snap to the side, leading to a sharp rotational movement of the brain inside the skull. This movement disrupts the brain’s communication and often results in a temporary loss of consciousness—what we commonly refer to as a "knockout."

Common Effects: Dislocation or fracture of the jaw, loss of consciousness, slurred speech, and severe pain.

Visual Aftermath: Swelling around the jawline, bruising, and possible misalignment of the jaw if broken.

B. Nose: Breaking and Bleeding

The nose is another vulnerable target, known for being easily broken. It’s not just a fragile bone structure, but it’s also connected to many blood vessels, meaning a direct punch to the nose often results in immediate bleeding. The nasal bone can fracture, causing difficulty in breathing, and in some cases, the nose may need surgical intervention to reset.

Common Effects: Intense pain, bleeding, difficulty breathing, potential for a broken nose.

Visual Aftermath: Blood running from the nostrils, swelling, and significant bruising around the nose and eyes.

C. Cheekbones (Zygomatic Bones): Bruising and Fractures

The cheekbones are one of the more solid structures in the face but are still susceptible to breaks, particularly from a heavy blow. Damage here can lead to not just bruising, but potentially severe injuries that can affect the entire facial structure.

Common Effects: Fractures of the zygomatic bone, swelling, bruising, and pain extending to the eye socket.

Visual Aftermath: Black eyes, noticeable swelling on one side of the face, and a sunken appearance if the bone is fractured.

D. Forehead: A Hard Target

The forehead is much harder than most parts of the face and is less vulnerable to severe damage. However, punches to the forehead can still cause pain, disorientation, and dazing of the recipient. While it’s less likely to result in a knockout, it’s effective in dazing an opponent, especially if the puncher’s goal is to create an opening for another strike.

Common Effects: Swelling, redness, and potential concussions if hit with enough force.

Visual Aftermath: Redness, minimal bruising, and a dazed expression.

E. Eyes: Black Eyes and Swelling

A punch to the eyes is particularly brutal because the area around the eyes is delicate, and the skin is thin. It’s not just about swelling but also potential damage to the orbital bones. The impact can cause "black eyes," characterized by intense bruising and swelling that may close the eye shut for days.

Common Effects: Swelling, black eyes, potential orbital bone fractures, temporary blurred vision.

Visual Aftermath: Discoloration that starts purple and turns yellowish-green as it heals, swollen shut eyes.

2. Types of Punches

Not all punches are created equal. The type of punch thrown can drastically change the outcome of the scene, both in terms of damage and realism. Understanding these different types of punches will allow you to convey more varied and dynamic fight sequences.

A. Jab: Speed and Precision

A jab is a quick, straight punch, usually thrown with the non-dominant hand. It’s not meant to be a knockout punch but more of a setup punch to create an opening or keep the opponent at a distance. Jabs are fast and can be disorienting, especially if they repeatedly land in quick succession.

Common Effects: Light bruising, potential cuts, and swelling in the area hit.

B. Cross: Power and Impact

The cross is a powerful, straight punch delivered with the dominant hand. It’s often aimed at vulnerable spots like the jaw or nose. Unlike a jab, the cross is meant to deliver a significant amount of force, and when landed properly, it can cause serious damage.

Common Effects: Knockouts, broken bones, severe swelling, and bruising.

C. Hook: Lateral Devastation

A hook is a wide, circular punch that targets the side of the head, particularly the jaw or temple. It’s one of the most powerful punches and is often used with the intent of knocking the opponent out.

Common Effects: Knockouts, severe disorientation, potential for concussions, and jaw dislocations.

D. Uppercut: Lifting from Below

The uppercut is thrown upward, usually aimed at the chin. It’s a devastating punch that can lift the opponent’s head and jolt their brain, leading to knockouts. Uppercuts are especially dangerous when they land cleanly on the jaw or chin.

Common Effects: Knockouts, broken teeth, jaw fractures, and disorientation.

E. Haymaker: Risky but Powerful

A haymaker is a wild, swinging punch delivered with as much force as possible. It’s often thrown with reckless abandon and is easy to dodge, but if it connects, it can deal significant damage. Because of its wide arc, it leaves the puncher exposed to counterattacks.

Common Effects: Knockouts, severe bruising, and possible fractures if landed correctly.

3. Punch Wounds: What They Look Like and Healing

Punches to the face leave lasting marks, some immediately visible and others taking days to fully form. Understanding the aftermath of a punch will help you describe the physical toll on your characters more accurately.

A. Immediate Effects

Swelling and Redness: Swelling can begin almost instantly, particularly in areas with soft tissue like the eyes and lips.

Bruising: Bruises start off as red, then turn purple, blue, and eventually fade into yellow or green as they heal.

Bleeding: Punches to the nose, lips, and even cheeks can result in bleeding, either from the skin breaking or from internal damage like a broken nose.

B. Long-Term Injuries

Black Eyes: Punches near the eyes can lead to bruising that darkens the skin around the eyes, giving it a purplish hue.

Fractures: Broken bones, such as the nose or jaw, may require weeks to heal, and in severe cases, surgery may be necessary.

Scarring: If the skin is cut open, there’s the potential for scarring, especially if stitches are required.

C. Healing Process

Bruises: These typically take about a week to two weeks to heal, with the colors shifting as the body absorbs the blood trapped under the skin.

Fractures: Healing from fractures can take several weeks to months, depending on the severity.

Swelling: Swelling can last anywhere from a few hours to a few days, with cold compresses helping to reduce it.

4. How the Punch Affects the Puncher

While we often focus on the person receiving the punch, it’s important to remember that throwing a punch can also take a toll on the puncher.

A. Physical Strain

Knuckle Damage: Hitting a hard surface, like a jaw or forehead, can cause damage to the puncher’s knuckles. This is known as a “boxer’s fracture,” where the small bones in the hand break due to impact.

Wrist Injury: If the punch is not aligned correctly, the wrist can absorb too much force, leading to sprains or breaks.

Fatigue: After multiple punches, especially in a drawn-out fight, the puncher can become fatigued, leading to less powerful or accurate strikes.

B. Emotional and Psychological Effects

Adrenaline Rush: For inexperienced fighters, throwing a punch can lead to an adrenaline surge, which can cause tunnel vision or reckless behavior.

Moral Conflict: If the puncher is not used to violence, they may experience guilt or shock at the damage they’ve caused, especially if the recipient is significantly injured.

5. Psychological Impact of Receiving a Punch

A punch to the face doesn’t only cause physical damage. For the recipient, it can have a lasting psychological effect, especially if the punch was unexpected or in a vulnerable situation. Writing this aspect adds depth to your characters and shows that a punch is more than just physical pain.

A. Shock and Fear

Fight or Flight Response: Getting punched can immediately trigger a fight-or-flight reaction. Some characters might freeze or retreat, especially if they’ve never been in a physical altercation before.

Loss of Confidence: For characters not used to violence, being punched in the face may cause a significant loss of confidence. They may question their own strength, bravery, or ability to defend themselves.

Increased Aggression: Alternatively, the punch may trigger a rage-fueled response, pushing the character into aggressive, reckless action.

B. Embarrassment and Humiliation

Public Fights: If the punch occurs in front of others, there’s often an added layer of humiliation. Characters might feel embarrassed, even if they weren’t at fault.

Internalizing the Event: The recipient of the punch may carry the emotional impact for a long time, replaying the event in their mind, feeling shame, or seeking revenge.

C. Post-Traumatic Stress

Lingering Anxiety: In extreme cases, receiving a punch can cause anxiety or even post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Characters who’ve experienced significant trauma might relive the event through flashbacks or become hyper-vigilant, avoiding confrontations in the future.

Fear of Future Confrontations: A character who’s been severely beaten might actively avoid scenarios where they could be hit again, making them overly cautious or paranoid.

6. Writing Tips: Making It Believable

Writing a punch scene isn't just about describing the physical action. To make the moment believable and impactful, you’ll need to consider various elements—from pacing and sensory details to character psychology and aftermath. Here’s how to make your punch scenes authentic:

A. Build Tension Before the Punch

Foreshadowing Conflict: Build up the tension before the punch is thrown. Is the character agitated? Are there verbal warnings or body language that suggests things are escalating? By slowly ramping up the tension, the eventual punch feels earned and inevitable.

Use Dialogue: A heated exchange of words can make a punch more meaningful. If the punch follows a particularly cutting remark or threat, it adds weight to the action.

B. Focus on Sensory Details

Physical Sensations: Describe not just the punch itself, but how it feels. Does the skin split? Does the puncher’s knuckles scrape against teeth or bone? Is there an immediate sting or delayed throbbing pain?

Sound: The sound of a punch can enhance the realism of the scene. A dull thud as a fist connects with soft tissue, the crack of a bone breaking, or the splatter of blood hitting the floor are all effective auditory details.

C. Show Immediate and Delayed Reactions

Physical Reaction: After being punched, characters rarely shake it off immediately. Staggering, falling, or momentarily losing their vision are realistic reactions. You can also show how the puncher feels—did their hand hurt from the impact?

Emotional Fallout: Punches are often emotional events. Show how your characters feel right after—whether it’s satisfaction, regret, or shock. The emotional weight of a punch can be just as impactful as the physical consequences.

D. Consider the Aftermath

Healing Process: Don’t forget that punches have a lasting impact. A black eye will take days to heal, and a broken nose could require medical attention. Characters might have to deal with soreness, swelling, or difficulty talking and eating.

Ongoing Tension: A punch can dramatically shift relationships. A once-trusting friendship could be shattered, or a bitter rivalry could be born. Make sure to carry the emotional weight of the punch forward in your story.

7. Common Misconceptions About Punching

Many writers fall into the trap of perpetuating unrealistic portrayals of punches. These misconceptions can make your scenes feel less authentic or overly cinematic. Here’s how to avoid them.

A. The Myth of the "Clean Knockout"

Reality: A punch to the jaw might cause a knockout, but it’s not always instant. In real life, knockouts are often messy and unpredictable. The recipient might stagger or struggle before finally losing consciousness, and they could wake up with serious concussions, memory loss, or nausea.

B. Punches Always Cause Immediate Bleeding

Reality: While a punch to the nose often causes immediate bleeding, not all punches result in visible blood. Even when skin splits, it might take a moment for blood to pool and become visible. Bruising and swelling often take hours to fully appear.

C. Punching Doesn’t Always Lead to a Win

Reality: Throwing a punch doesn’t guarantee victory. The puncher could hurt themselves, miss entirely, or end up escalating a fight they weren’t prepared for. Additionally, punches to the forehead or temple might not have the knockout effect portrayed in movies—they could just make the puncher’s hand hurt more than the opponent.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Quillology with Haya Sameer; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! While you’re at it, don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey! 

[hoonieyun]

interview with a vampire

pairing: sim jaeyun x reader genre: vampire!jake x talk show host reader, suspense/thriller, angst, supernatural, internet forum theme (?) warnings: mentions of blood, neck biting and other vampire activities lol, reader is a skeptic and a bit mean, jake is a vampire so you know... kissing, suggestive, 18+ not proofread lol

synopsis: yn, the new face of late night tv has made a calling on centering her show on supernatural and paranormal activities and entities because of her skepticism. tonight, she faces a real life vampire on her show; intending to prove his existence: false.

wc: 3017

“places! filming in 3.. 2..” the director signals a hand that filming has begun and a bright red light turns on in the far corner that says, “filming in progress”. 

“hello, everyone. my name is yn, the host of spooky skeptics and i’m going to cut all of this introduction bullshit and go straight into it– tonight, we have a special guest.” you said confidently, a flirty and sassy attitude wrapped around your tongue as you go through the introduction of your show. 

“as you can see, our usual live studio audience is empty and that’s because we have a real life ‘vampire’ in the studio tonight. he’s been alive, or i guess, dead? –for thousands of years, allegedly, and has taken time out of his busy schedule of being an undead creature to come onto my little show.” you continued, putting emphasis on certain words like vampire, allegedly, and undead to push the narrative that you’re very skeptical and find none of this to be true. 

that was the premise of your show after all. 

spooky skeptics first started out as a little youtube show, you’d make video essays on paranormal and supernatural events and creatures which eventually led to you going insanely viral on the internet, landing you a gig as a tv show host. 

what started off as you being, in all honesty, a hater on the internet, turned into a full blown production on a tv set and filming lot. 

“i know there isn’t an audience tonight but we are streaming live to all of you at home, so… everyone watching at home please give a warm welcome to jaeyun..” you said, with a barely warm tone as you welcomed him on your show. his aura is strong as he steps onto the stage, he’s wearing a beige suit, hair slicked, and features sharp but he has a warm smile on his face. 

it was like he was overjoyed to be there. 

“hi, jaeyun. welcome to spooky skeptics; i’m– yn.. i know.” he says, cutting you off when you attempt to introduce yourself. it catches you a bit off guard but you don’t fully let it show because inside, you know it was just an attempt to throw you off. 

“please introduce yourself.” 

“hello world, i’m sim jaeyun; but all of you can just call me, jake.” he says, a mysterious smile on his face as he looks into the camera.

“wait! let’s cut! sorry we’re having weird transmission issues, give us a second.” a staff member calls from the back and everyone cuts. the light in the back is now green, indicating that filming has paused. you drop your cards with your script on the table with a bit of an aggravted sigh, slightly slouching into your chair as they try to figure out what’s going on. 

“you look a bit tired.. are you alright?” jake asks, turning his head towards you but his body remains still in position. 

you look up at jake and blink at him, not expecting the question. 

“what is that accent? australian?” you ask and he nods. 

you pout and nod at his response. 

“um.. no i’m not tired– well kinda. we did have to film pretty late today, per your request, but anything for the show, right?” you tilt your head, a bit of a condescending smile on your face as you answer him. 

jake had several requests before making his appearance on your show. 

1: limited witnesses, right now there was only you, the director, and 3 other staff members. 

2: filming would take place after midnight because you know… he’s a “vampire”

3: for you to be open to him even if you’re skeptical of his existence 

you had followed all of these rules, maybe the third one not as much, but you tried your best not to be so strong with your skepticism. 

“you're..” jake says, eyes boring into yours. 

“what?” you ask, not completely sure of what you heard. 

“okay! we’ve got it situated, let’s run it back.” the cameraman says and soon filming restarts, picking up where you left off. completely forgetting the small conversation you were just having with jake. 

filming goes on and you ask jake several questions, a regular interview routine, and he seems to answer them with a sense of grace and maturity; not completely playing into your games. you weren’t completely sure if jake was just toying with you but his answers seemed to run in circles just enough so that it sounds fundamental but doesn’t have an actual answer within it. 

as much as you wanted to take this seriously it felt like he treated this interview as if  it was a joke. he didn’t give definitive answers, often responded with questions of his own, and tried his best to make you look like a fool for not believing in him. 

“okay– none of this even makes sense. if we go off of basic vampire rules and such, then none of it is correct. we can see you on the cameras and mirrors; and quite frankly, i actually had garlic wafted through our ventilation system and you seem completely fine. 

jakey.. can i call you that? jakey– i’m sorry but i don’t think you’re a real life vampire because vampires. don’t. exist.” you say with a shrug punching each word at the end– a smug expression on your face as you grill into him for the false narrative that he’s presented on your show. 

“everyone at home, i’m going to be honest… this episode is a bust and– give.” jake interrupts you with a single word and your face instantly turns towards him. 

you give him a puzzled expression, head slightly tilted to one side. 

“what did you say?” 

jake shakes his head with a pout as if he hadn’t said anything and when you look towards your team, they’re all exchanging glances with each other like you were crazy. seemingly enough, they hadn’t heard anything the way you had. 

maybe it was because they weren’t sitting right next to him. 

“um.. anyways. okay, please give me and our viewers at home a bit of a run down on what it’s like being a ‘vampire’.” you say, putting air quotes around the word vampire. 

jake chuckles with a scoff, a half smirk on his face as he looks down before looking directly into the camera to speak. “you know, being a vampire isn’t all it's cut out to be. i have to remain hidden, nonexistent, and constantly waiting. 

i wish i could be like you, all of you, living my life the way i want to. indulging in my cravings the way you all do. give into temptations. unleashing my desires for the world to see.” 

his voice is low but clear. he speaks with a cadence similar to a tune; like a lullaby almost. you’d be lying if you didn’t feel like you were in a bit of trance as you listened to him speak but you shook that feeling off when he looked back at you before he finished speaking. 

“mine.” 

once again, you look at him with a puzzled look but you choose not to address it. you for sure heard him clearly, he had said mine but the word was out of place from his previous statement. your eyes are narrowed at him as you slowly pull up your cue cards, almost like a shield, however not one that is effective. 

“right.. um.” you start to stutter a bit, like the longer you’re in the presence of jake, the harder it gets to remain focused. you weren’t sure if it was because you were getting tired of the interview or if it was due to jake’s unnerving aura. 

he wasn’t even doing anything but his lack of energy was replaced with a certain ambience that shifted as soon as he stepped in front of the camera. jake was merely sitting on the small couch in front of your desk, one leg crossed over the other with his shoulders back and posture upright. he was looking directly at the camera in front of him and would only look at you when he was speaking to you. 

you couldn’t help but take in his features. despite claiming to be a vampire, his features were soft. he had big round eyes, one of like a puppy, plump lips that look like they’re stained by strawberries, and a tall nose that grounded all of his features together. 

if you weren’t trying to prove this man as a farce, you would’ve complimented his looks, but you had a character to uphold. 

“to..” 

he speaks before you get a chance to read the next thing on your card. 

“what?” 

jake doesn’t move or respond so you decide to continue. 

“um– so, tell us jake. is there anything you want the world to know about being a vampire? not that i totally believe you are one.” you added, widening your eyes in doubt. 

“i exist.” jake looks straight into the camera with a stoic expression. his face barely even contorts when he speaks, like a statue or a puppet of some sort. your cameraman had his camera focused on your guest, eyes glued onto him as he watched the alluring man in front of the camera. 

“ah, shit!” the cameraman exclaims out of nowhere. 

“is everything alright?” you ask

“yourself..” 

jake’s words don’t register in your mind as your focus is on your team. “fuck– my nose is bleeding. sorry guys, give me a moment.” the cameraman excuses himself, hands around his face as blood begins to drip from his nose, covering his hands in crimson. 

small droplets fall onto the floor, trailing behind him. 

jake swallows the lump in his throat, forcing himself to remain unphased– but deep inside he wanted nothing more than to jump from his seat and chase down your cameraman and drain him of all the blood in his body until he’s become shriveled up– nothing but bones and skin left behind. 

you clear your throat before continuing. 

“let’s cut.” you suggest and everyone takes a break but because the main cameraman was dealing with his bloody nose, no one shut off his camera. “you know, my goal isn’t to convince you that i’m real, right?” jake speaks up as you’re taking a sip of your coffee. 

“then what is your goal?” 

“yourself..” 

“what? your goal is.. me?” 

jake slowly turns his head towards you, gaze piercing into your own as you get a full view of his face. your bottom lip starts to tremble as you battle and try your best to hold his gaze. jake doesn’t speak for a second, almost like he’s challenging you in a staredown. his dark orbs were like a blackhole and the longer you looked into them the more you felt yourself getting pulled in. 

“me..” 

and suddenly jake is rising from his seat on the couch and sauntering over to you. like he was floating almost. you begin to lean back into your chair so much, wishing it would just swallow you whole as you watch jake get closer and closer.

“what are you doing?” your voice falters as you question him.

but jake doesn’t answer. each step he takes makes your heart thud louder. all the while, jake can hear it 100x more than you can. the blood rushing through your veins and coursing through your body is like a lullaby to him. drawing him closer and closer. 

you look to your team for help but suddenly there isn’t anyone there. the director sitting in his chair was gone, everyone behind the cameras and lights, gone. nothing but stale air and a slight ringing in the atmosphere as your eyes wander. 

jake slamming his hands on your wooden desk and throwing it away with a crash causes you to flinch. the loud sound and aggressive action startled you as jake was now towering over your shaking body. you tried not to look him directly in the eyes but when you turn away, jake’s hand flies to your chin and pulls your face towards his. 

“don’t look away now love, didn’t you want to know if i was real.” he says, his voice was still low but it felt different. before, he sounded calm and reserved, sometimes his inflection would raise but now it was like a whole other person had stepped into his body. he sounded playful, almost like he was toying with you. 

“do i look real to you?” jake says, lowering his face closer to yours. so close that you could feel his breath on your skin. 

you swallowed the dryness in your throat, frozen against his touch. jake’s skin was freezing. not just cold, but freezing. you felt your body’s temperature fall several degrees when you felt his hand touch your face. so cold that the room itself began to feel like there was a constant chill wafting in the studio. 

you were able to spit out a small no through your quivering lips but jake’s grip on your chin only gets tighter as you try to fight him off. he brings his face even closer, his cheek slightly grazing yours as he brings his lips closer to your ears. 

“what about now?” he whispers into your ear, lips ever so lightly brushing against the shell of your ear as his words pool inside of your head. before you could answer, sharp fangs elongate inside of jake’s mouth and a searing pain in your neck causes you to gasp, an agonizing moan escapes from your lips. 

jake was indulging in your blood and you could feel all of your blood swimming towards his lips that are attached to your neck. you begin to get light headed, the studio lights above you getting brighter and brighter the longer jake sucks onto the supple skin of your neck. the fear rages through you and it only makes jake’s meal taste even sweeter. 

he smiles into your skin before pulling away. 

blood drips from his mouth as he looks down at you, eyes drooping and head bobbing around, trying your best to stay conscious– but you eventually succumb to the feeling. 

“delicious.” jake whispers. 

he stands up straight, fingers gently trailing over your lips before he dusts off his blazer. later wiping the blood off of his face and sucking the excess blood off of his skin. red, staining his face as your sweet and vibrant blood is smeared across his chin. his head slowly turns to the camera like an owl. 

a sinister smile slowly spreads across his face as the cameras suddenly cut, nothing left on the screen’s of the viewer’s watching at home. 

⸸

r/Supernatural Did you guys see this week’s episode of Spooky Skeptics? WTF was that?  submitted by: QuackPuma PrettyFoxPrince I saw it!! That was so crazy?? You think it was real? I doubt it, then we’d hear all about it on the news right? OrangeCatNyaaa That was so fake. I love YN and Spooky Skeptics but that episode was so whack.  BambiBoy God, that was insane. I hope YN is fine and that this was all a prank or something. Anyone find any updates on that guy by the way? I tried looking into him but I didn’t get anything besides some articles from the 1600s that were in a random ass language.  PrettyFoxPrince in reply to BambiBoy I tried to look him up too and didn’t get anything. I even tried reverse image searching him with a screenshot from the stream and I swear it gave me a virus or something. The words on my computer turned into random characters and when I refreshed the page it just said error.  IcePenguin Did you guys catch this? Whenever he’d say a random word, YN would look hella confused and I watched back the stream and put the words together. It took a bit of time but I was able to mix the words around and came up with this, “You’re mine. Give yourself to me.”  Fucking weird dude.  BlackCatShadow in reply to IcePenguin Bro, what the fuck!! I just tried to rewatch the stream and it fucking crashed midway and when I refreshed it was gone. Someone needs to check in on them.  QuackPuma [NEW] Guys, I got an update. This is so fucked… I can’t believe it.  Article Linked: Late Night TV Show Host and staff found slaughtered on their TV set. Footage from cameras and security cameras on the premesis have been wiped. OrangeCatNyaaa in reply to QuackPuma What? That makes no sense, there’s a whole stream of it.  IcePenguin in reply to QuackPuma Yeah, that weirdo vampire guy named Jake did it?? Why is no one talking about him?? He’s a fucking murderer!! PrettyFoxPrince in reply to IcePenguin Who is Jake? That stream literally doesn’t have anyone on the screen besides YN?? She was probably tweaking the whole time and made it all up.  BlackCatShadow in reply to IcePenguin Bro, you’re tripping. I just watched the stream again and it’s just YN talking to an empty couch. Are you sure you aren’t behind this too? This is probably a publicity stunt or some shit. LAME! BambiBoy in reply to IcePenguin Ain’t shit there bro. YN probably hired you to come up with this hoax because her show was starting to flop. Click the link QuackPuma sent, they literally talk about a wild animal breaking onto their set. 

That was the very last episode of Spooky Skeptics. YN’s show on YouTube had 100 videos and her Late Night Show lasted for 2 seasons. 

The episode titled “Interview with a Vampire” was only up for one hour after the stream ended, suddenly disappearing from the internet– and when it returned at exactly 6am, the footage only shows YN seemingly interviewing nobody when static interference cuts the interview for 27 minutes before returning to normal. The sight of the aftermath of the slaughter remains on the screen for the rest of the playback before the screen goes black. 

⸸

ᡣ•.•𐭩♡ @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @manaah02 @zorange13 @firstclassjaylee @kristynaaah @17ericas @heeseung64 @leipforggy

copyright 2025 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned. if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

[fahye]

book recs: may 2025

first recs post in nearly a year! I plead: having a baby. turns out they surgically remove all your free time, who knew?? but I've been reading in tiny doses and now am able to read in LARGER doses so let's do this. highlights from the past year.

*means not yet released; read as an ARC.

FLOWERS FROM THE STORM by laura kinsale - I only discovered kinsale recently but I was electrified. halfway between georgette heyer and dorothy dunnett. this book in particular is bonkers intense and absolutely wonderful. the hero has had an aphasic stroke and the heroine is a quaker. yes I know. read it anyway. life-changing.

THE SENTENCE by louise erdrich - literary fiction about a year in the life of a native american ex-felon bookseller haunted by a dead customer. I fucking adored this. it's like taking a big bite of a perfectly cooked steak: rich, meaty, satisfying, self-indulgent. a perfect treat for book nerds.

SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY by alexis hall - this is kind of a comedic romance novel about an aromantic woman who semi-kidnaps and marries her gay friend for Regency Reasons, and kind of a cross-country romp in which they collect sex partners, and very full of long grown-up discussions about feelings and family and priorities. it shouldn't work and yet I was HOOKED. the third in a series; I do recommend reading the other two for context.

*AN ACADEMIC AFFAIR by jodi mcalister - marriage of convenience for the extremely valid reason of academic partner employment clauses. I am obsessed with jodi's romances and this one is very sharp about how fucked up academia is while also being blissfully swoony and bantery. can't wait for the others in this series, too.

YOU ARE HERE: NINE MORE STORIES by iona datt sharma - I will sing iona's praises with my dying breath. deft, devastating, delicious. every one of these stories is a jewel. I will also throw in a rec for BLOOD SWEAT GLITTER, their recent romance novella about roller derby and trauma recovery.

WOOING THE WITCH QUEEN by stephanie burgis - romantasy girlies, assemble! this is a fun & satisfying story about a powerful woman trying to hold her kingdom together and the hot archduke she accidentally hires to be her magical librarian. found family! secret identities! a heartwarming banger.

*LADIES IN HATING by alexandra vasti - what if we were rival gothic novelists with a secret shared past and we got stuck in a Haunted Manor and had to have a lot of feelings about it while in surprising amounts of peril? sapphic histrom doesn't get better than this.

I SHALL NEVER FALL IN LOVE by hari conner - a graphic novel queer retelling of emma, which is one of my favourite austens. this is thoughtfully researched and grounded in history, has lovely and very funny art, and was a shot of pure joy.

*THE EVERLASTING by alix harrow - can't believe alix is out here grinding my heart into little pieces YET AGAIN. a tired lady knight and the historian trying to chronicle her life and control her ending get stuck in a time loop. this is about the violence of history and empire and narrative. it's brutal. it's romantic. it's so so so so SO good.

THUS WAS ADONIS MURDERED by sarah caudwell - I almost don't want to give too much away about this, because I went in with zero knowledge and had a blast. it's a murder mystery. it's extremely funny. go forth, enjoy.

EUPHORIA by lily king - not funny at all but a perfectly crafted, fairly short gem of a historical litfic novel. it's about the relationships between three anthropologists. it's very hard to describe. but I can't stop thinking about this book.

THE SAFEKEEP by yael van der wouden. also historical litfic and even shorter! even less funny! even more amazing! a bitter, repressed woman plays reluctant host to her brother's girlfriend; history, yearning, secrets and denial create a crucible of emotion and lust.

*THE DUKE by anna cowan - what if the rich, rakish, unrepentant duke of every regency romance was a woman? what if her love interest was a french courtesan who's blackmailing her? anna cowan's first book was WAY ahead of its time when it comes to fucky delicious gender stuff, and this one is equally great.

[sirfrogsworth]

In this scene, they are in the middle of the woods under a canopy of trees. They show the sky and there is no moon.

The light has absolutely no motivation.

Motivated lighting is a philosophy where all of the light sources on screen have a logical source. The light from a smartphone on someone's face. A lamp next to the couch. Sterile overhead office lights.

Often filmmakers will still use their own custom light sources, but they will simulate these things to give the impression the light has motivation.

Compare this to when all they really had were bright spotlights and insensitive film. An indoor scene just couldn't have this warm and cozy feel. And the light was just blasted in from everywhere.

Black and white helped a lot. You could still get dramatic effect despite things needing to be overlit. Or you could play with contrast ratios and shadow.

All the stuff you need to see was very bright and exposed well onto film and all the stuff you didn't was very dark.

But there was no graduation in between. It was hard to be subtle.

And when television and movies went color, this black and white contrast advantage was lost.

You can see EVERYTHING. And look at those sharp shadows. Everyone is just being blasted in the face with lights.

This sitcom lighting persisted long past when it was necessary. It became part of the sitcom language.

I think M*A*S*H was one of the first shows to subvert the overlit sitcom aesthetic. They began to play with lighting that had more motivation.

But aesthetic standards are hard to kill. And despite the heavy influence of M*A*S*H, sitcoms persisted all the way into the Friends era.

Her lamp isn't even on. Everything is just lit by God.

I don't think you will see a living room or kitchen scene lit like this very much from here on out.

People are getting used to lighting making more logical sense.

With the advent of LED lighting that can be any size, shape, and brightness, as well as cameras that can interpret very dark images, modern shows can now use bright and dark as narrative tools.

I think Severance does this well, and still keeps everything properly motivated.

But this newfound flexibility has created new problems. If you can film dark things, how dark is too dark? And how do you make sure the audience can see all of the important visual information?

The two worst examples of unmotivated lighting are always space helmets and cars.

It's a conceit. You gotta see the faces so these things are usually forgiven.

But the biggest debate in the realm of unmotivated lighting is night scenes. People have lots of opinions on how best to use light in the dark.

This is because following a motivated lighting philosophy can be especially tricky. Particularly if your setting is a secluded area without any artificial light sources.

Many cinematographers will try to give some sense of moonlight. But moonlight is very hard to replicate, so the effect usually ends up looking pretty fake.

This scene during a blackout in Die Hard 4 looks like they took the brightest light they had, mounted it as high as possible and said, "Fuck it, that's moon-ish."

If the DP is hardcore into motivated lighting, they just make the screen really really dark, like the Long Night battle in Game of Thrones.

The really really dark option bugs a lot of people.

Froggie Tangent about Dark Scenes:

I originally thought people needed to adjust their display settings. But then I realized not everyone watches content in a darkened room like a vampire. But if you find a show or movie is too dark, turning off any room lights will help a lot. Watching it in HDR will also help. And watching it on an OLED will help even more.

Scenes this dark are mostly a fad. DPs are experimenting with the possibilities of new technology. But sometimes they forget not everyone has that technology yet. And they forget some people watch stuff on their phones in a room full of sunlight.

Eventually the fad will fade, we will all adopt better screens, and the darkness will land somehwere between "I can't see shit" and "it would never be that bright in real life."

[End of tangent]

In the olden days, since film wasn't sensitive enough to do scenes in the dark, almost everything needed to have unmotivated lighting just to make sure their film wasn't a grainy mess. And as a culture, we sort of got used to that style. They'd mess with the contrast ratios to give the feeling of night, but if you think about where the light is coming from too hard, it won't make any sense. They took a Broadway theater approach to lighting and so a lot of movies felt like they were on a soundstage.

The 1961 West Side Story is a good example.

They've got a spot light hitting them, but not the building behind them. I guess that could be an overhead street light. But street lights are meant to flood the area like an ever expanding donut of light. A spotlight is like a directly projected cone of light. It is perfectly pointed at the side of their face and not coming from above.

She has some magical purple light coming from... somewhere.

And then they are in an area under a bridge, far away from any lights, but they've got soft fill light with a bright rim coming from the right.

Speilberg's version has much more motivated light.

This one is a bit of a cheat, some very bright source off in the distance. But it feels more plausible to the brain and gives a better sense of darkness. It feels like some kind of industrial lighting. Or a security light at a junkyard.

Here he straight up shows you where the light is coming from. And his preference for anamorphic lenses.

And here he uses bright train lights to create silhouettes. This is clever because it allows everything to be very dark but everyone is still legible in the scene.

I'm torn. Because I study light. And so I am very aware of how shows and movies are lighting things. And unmotivated lighting sticks out in my brain. Like when I watch someone miming playing the guitar. Or using a camera improperly. When you know too much about something, inaccurate onscreen depictions just drive you nuts.

There are some techniques being experimented with to make night scenes more legible while maintaining lighting realism. I think the most promising is the infrared day-for-night process used in Nope.

But maybe it doesn't need to be solved. Maybe DPs should just light the night even if it doesn't always make sense. Maybe general audiences just do not care and I am a big nerd who should be ignored.

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

I Can Go Anywhere I Want- Just Not Home | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hi, friends. I've been BUSY with school and this one took fucking forever. But it means a lot to me, I hope you like it. :)

Word count: 13.3k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: do me a favor and pretend Bucky didn't disappear in the blip. ok thanks bye.

Warnings: talk of financial struggles, food insecurity, housing insecurity

A familiar shape stepped onto the sidewalk just ahead, freeing itself from the shadows of a rundown motel. The lines and curves of this body forced your heart into your throat. Time seemed to stop. The world round you ceased its turning. You’d know those broad shoulders anywhere, and you’d remember that sharp jaw even after your soul left this mortal coil. 

You stood there, your feet rooted in the concrete, watching him with a longing that tore through your chest. How long had it been since you last saw him? How many months had passed since you last spoke? You made yourself stop counting the days long ago; it was too depressing, too pathetic. But while you forced your brain not to continue the tally, your heart kept count. 

His sudden motion caught your attention, pulling you from your thoughts. The shape that once resembled home headed down the street, slipping through your fingers a second time. But you couldn’t let him get away- not again. 

Even after you freed your feet and increased your pace, he remained ahead. His long legs carried him away from you as he glided past people on the sidewalk. His hands rested in his pockets, concealing his trademark from the world. His head bowed forward, he kept his gaze down. He didn’t want to catch the eye of the public. But he caught yours. 

“Bucky?” your call came out a desperate plea. Blowing his cover wasn’t your goal, but he was too fast. You had to stop him before he vanished again.

He stopped in his tracks at the sound of your voice. You could’ve sworn you saw his head fall another inch or two, as though he were disappointed to know you’d found him.

But he turned. And for the first time in almost a year, he faced you. 

“Bucky.” It wasn’t a question this time, but an affirmation. A reassurance. An unstoppable smile pulled at your lips, a sigh of relief left your chest. You almost wept. “Hi…” 

The darkness that clouded your mind in his absence parted all at once, making way for a golden glow of twinkling lights. You hadn’t seen him since the battle. Since the shimmering portals. Since everyone returned home after Thanos fell. 

He simply stopped answering your calls. Your texts. He didn’t return your voicemails. 

To this day, you wondered what you did wrong. What you did that pushed him so far away. It wasn’t like him to ice you out, to cut you off without warning. He had baggage, sure, but he never shied away from you. Not like this. At one time, you were his closest friend. His most trusted confidante. And he was yours. You spent every moment together, taking shelter in each other. But not anymore. 

Each night, you recounted the last time you saw him. You analyzed every detail, scrutinizing the minutiae of the interaction. Maybe you said something that offended him. Maybe you did something hurtful. But no matter how hard you wracked your brain, not one single red flag made an appearance. And it made Bucky’s sudden disappearance from your life all the more maddening. More hurtful.

Sometimes, you liked to think that he just used you. That he got what he needed from you and moved on. It somehow softened the blow of his loss. Painting him as a manipulator took the blame off your shoulders and made him the villain. But you could never convince yourself of this narrative for long. Bucky wasn’t the type of person to use others. He gave and gave until he had nothing left. Or until he left.

With a few strides, you closed the gap between the two of you. “It’s so good to see you, Buck,” your instinctive reach for a hug left your arms hanging in the air as he took a small step back. It was then you realized just how embarrassing it was to drop your arms to your sides after an unwanted embrace.

“Hey- hi,” he cleared his throat and cut his eyes to the side, almost like he couldn’t bear to look at you. He stared at the passing cars, the flier-covered streetlight. Anything to keep his gaze from lingering on you. He wasn’t sure he had the strength. 

But he couldn’t help himself- he had to look at you. And as his eyes finally landed on yours, a familiar warmth sliced through his trepidations. He’d been aching for so long now; he’d didn’t know what a life without pain felt like. Every day, he hurt. He suffered. But the biting agony stilled as he stared at you. 

His lungs filled to capacity for the first time in months. The knots in his stomach untangled themselves. He’d forgotten how light he felt around you. You had a way of making things feel so easy, so simple. Everything in his life was complicated, and each day grew more difficult than the last. No matter how hard he tried, he never quite got his head above water. But with you standing there before him, he broke through the surface for the first time in ages.

He drank you in for a long moment, taking inventory of the ways you’d changed, and the ways you’d stayed the same. Your radiant smile still poked dimples into your cheeks. Freckles still splashed across your skin. But he noted the all too familiar braid in which your hair was twisted. The letter ‘N’ dangling from a dainty gold chain around your neck.  

Bucky knew losing Nat wasn’t easy on you. Knew that you’d been mourning her all on your own. He should’ve been there for you, should’ve been your shoulder to cry on. He hated himself every day for making you go it alone.

“It’s um,” Bucky didn’t know where to start. “It’s been a while…”

A quiet, awkward laugh rasped out of your throat at his understatement, “Yeah, you could say that.” 

A long pause forced its way between you. Things with Bucky never used to be this awkward, this tense. He was nearly a stranger now. And it killed you. Your friendship always flowed without difficulty, without pressure. It became second nature. The two of you moved together almost as though choreographed, anticipating the other’s actions instinctually.

But those instincts died and were buried, along with your hope of ever patching things up.

“Um, are you- where are you headed?” you asked, breaking the silence.

“I was just gonna- I thought I’d grab some breakfast.”

“Oh! Me too!” Finally, you had something in common. “Can I-” you quickly rephrased, fearing you may scare him off. “Do you wanna go together? Maybe we could catch up?” You knew you were throwing yourself at him, but you couldn’t stop. You were so overwhelmed, so desperate to be near him; you didn’t care how crazed you seemed. 

Bucky’s shy smile made an appearance, “Yeah, that would be nice.” He kicked himself for not appearing more excited, more overjoyed by the reunion. But he couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything other than anxious. 

The walk to the diner was less awkward than you anticipated. The conversation flowed a little smoother, the words came a little easier. But it was still clunky. And though more silence than you would’ve liked hung in the air, you breathed easier knowing that he was merely a few inches away. 

Things between you simply needed to thaw. You needed to shake the rust off and find your way back into the groove you carved out for one another. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“I thought you said you were getting breakfast,” you joked, “not just coffee.” You sat across from Bucky in a beat-up booth, it’s cracked, torn vinyl dating the restaurant. When the waitress asked for your order, Bucky insisted you go first. And when you’d finished rattling off your perfect breakfast, Bucky dismissed her with a “nothing for me.”

He shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, “I’m not really hungry anymore.”

“Wow, I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on people,” you said, only half-joking. Maybe he really did hate you, after all. The months of dead silence suggested as much. 

More often than not, you tried lived in denial. You told yourself any lie you could come up with- anything to ease the pain of missing him. Even after his less than enthusiastic reaction to your reunion, you buried your head in the sand. Surely, he was just surprised to see you. He just needed some time to warm up, to come out of his shell.

But he only ordered coffee; clearly, he didn’t plan on staying long. He had an escape strategy locked and loaded. You knew he planned to fulfill your request for a catch-up session and run for the hills as soon as he emptied his mug. Upon your realization, everything came crashing down. His scant order slapped you with the cold hard facts: he’d cut off all communication, ignored you for months, and seemed to lose his appetite at the very prospect of sharing a meal with you. 

Maybe missing him was a waste of your time.

“No, it’s not like that,” very real concern coated Bucky’s words. “I’m so- I’m really happy to see you.” 

His fingers twitched as the logical side of his brain shut down his attempt to touch you. All he wanted to do was reach out and rest a hand atop yours, maybe stroke your knuckles a few times. It was something he used to do all the time, something that, at one point, reassured the both of you. But things were different these days. He didn’t have the right to be so familiar with you, not after he chose to make himself a stranger. 

He gripped his coffee mug with both hands, stemming any impulses to reach for you. “How have you been?”

There’d been a time when you would’ve told him everything. You would’ve spilled your soul and let loose every ugly detail of your life. Being honest with each other used to be easy. Neither one of you had to fear judgment or ridicule; you were safe in the other’s hands.

But those days were long gone. He clearly didn’t want to be your best friend anymore- he barely wanted to know you at all. He was, at most, an acquaintance whose soul used to be tied to yours. And so, you opted to forego the truth. You didn’t tell him that you cried yourself to sleep most nights. You didn’t tell him that you missed him so badly it caused you physical pain. You didn’t tell him that you needed him. Instead, you gave him what he wanted: an easy, canned response.

“I’ve been good,” you forced a smile to your face and shrugged. “Just been working, doing the whole SWORD thing.”

He raised his brow, “Oh, wow. You work for SWORD now? I had no idea. Good for you.” 

He feared his feigned surprise came off too fake, too forced. But you didn’t seem to clock it. You really believed that he was out of the loop, but you should’ve known better. It was ludicrous to think he’d ever be uninformed about your life. Of course, he already knew you worked for SWORD He knew that you moved into a new apartment. He even knew that you were planning on adopting a cat soon. He asked Sam about you almost daily, scrounging for any details he could get. 

He just needed to know that you were okay, that you were safe. And happy. 

“Yeah, I started a few months ago. It’s been-” You paused a moment, allowing the waitress to set down your food. The table in front of Bucky looked so empty; with no food anchoring him to the restaurant, he could leave at any moment. “It’s been alright. But how about you? What have you been up to?”

He took a moment to formulate his response. He needed to be careful. Precise. Allowing too much to slip could ruin everything. “I’ve just been working with Sam,” he shrugged. “We had to take care of that whole Flag Smashers thing.”

“I saw that!” you said, your mouth full of pancakes. “You guys did a great job.”

“Thanks, yeah,” Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink. “And I had my pardon hearing.”

You nodded, “I watched all the news coverage about it.”

He forced his eyes down to his mug; he never used to get embarrassed around you. “You did?”

“Of course.”

Bucky wanted you there that day. He wanted to rest his hand in yours and experience the peace only you could provide as he waited for the judge to call his name. And when he finally received his pardon, he wanted to turn around and see you- wide smile, eyes brimming with happy tears. He wanted to wrap his body around yours and thank you for being his rock. 

But he didn’t invite you along.

He, instead, sat alone in the hall, with no one to hold his shaking hand, until a bailiff ushered him into the courtroom. Sam wanted to be there, but his nephew begged Captain America to make an appearance for Bring Your Dad to Work Day. And who was he to say no?

When the judge awarded Bucky his pardon, no one cheered. No one ran to his side and granted him a congratulatory hug. He collected his papers and made his way out of the courthouse. Alone. 

He got a heap of texts and calls from you that day, though. He watched his phone ring with your name and picture taking up his screen. He poured over your kind texts and listened to your congratulatory voicemails. Even after he shut you out, you made sure he knew that you supported him. That you still cared. But he didn’t return your messages.

He did, however, listen to your voicemails on a loop. Hearing your voice again gave him an escape, a life preserver. You’d never know how much those messages meant, how often they saved him. He promised himself he’d tell you- one day.

 “Honestly, you shouldn’t have even needed a pardon,” you said with an eyeroll. “I mean, you didn’t do anything. None of it was your fault.”

Bucky had nearly forgotten how unabashedly supportive you were. How you were always on his side, no matter what. He wondered why you still wanted to be on his team after months of silence.

“Well, the US government feels differently,” he sighed out a soft laugh. “And it’s taken care of now, so it’s all good.”

He appeared hopeful, almost optimistic. He had Sam, he had his pardon- he seemed to be doing well. And though you wanted more than anything to be in his life, you just wanted him to be happy. Maybe your friendship didn’t serve him the way it served you. Maybe he felt like you didn’t give him what he needed. Maybe his life was better without you in it. The thought stung. It forced your throat closed, nearly sending you into a choking fit. But you swallowed your pancakes along with your pride, and vowed never to beg Bucky to come back to you. 

“Good. I’m happy for you.” You stopped yourself from reaching for his hand. “Can I ask something that might be a little invasive?”

Bucky’s heart stopped, “Um, sure.”

“I saw you coming out of that motel…” you shot him a suggestive glance. “What was that about?”

Bucky stiffened. He grew tense, anxiety flooding his system. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… was there maybe a little-” you raised a brow at him, “hook up situation going on?” 

He laughed at your overdramatic wink, the way you licked your lips. And he thanked his lucky stars you came up with a cover story for him. “Oh, yeah…” he grew bashful about his fictional sexcapades. “It’s just a- it’s casual, you know. Nothing serious.”

The confirmation of your suspicions made your jaw drop. Bucky Barnes, the old-fashioned gentleman, actually had a friend with benefits. He’d had a secretive, motel rendezvous. Hell, he probably had hickeys and nail marks hiding under his shirt. 

A pang of jealousy tore through you like the nails of his lover. Why did she get to be near him? How did she rank above you? The unsettling feeling of envy almost possessed you, but you pushed it aside.

“Woah, look at you,” you feigned appluase. “I always knew you were a ladies’ man, I just never got to see it in real time.”

He rolled his eyes, “yeah, yeah, I’m a real heartbreaker.” He regretted his word choice immediately, knowing full well he broke your heart.

You sidestepped his comment and forced the conversation forward, his comment stinging your open wound. “Seriously, Buck. I’m happy for you.” Once again, you stifled the urge to touch him. “You deserve to have some fun.”

He stared at you for a long moment, a genuine smile on his face. You were so sincere in your support of him, so unashamed of how deeply you cared. Sam was an incredible friend, of course- but you were his soulmate. He was tied to you with an unbreakable thread, unable to free himself even if he wanted to. And he wanted to. But not because he didn’t adore you; it was a simple matter of worthiness. 

But no matter how hard he tried, he still thought of you daily. Almost constantly. He missed you, pined over you, wished he could exist in your world. But he couldn’t- not yet. 

He shook the grin from his face and pulled his gaze down to his mug once again. “I’m um- I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Things have just gotten…” He cleared his throat, “I’ve been really busy.”

A scream scratched at your throat, but you forced it away with a bite of eggs and a swig of coffee. Of course, Bucky was busy. But he wasn’t the only one. It seemed that SWORD wanted to run you ragged. They were always assigning you extra operations and looking to you to solve problems. But even with the mountains of work, even in your sea of grief for Nat, you still managed to reach out to Bucky. You still called, still texted. 

But he clearly didn’t want to make the time for you.

“I totally understand,” you lied. “Shit has been crazy. Don’t worry about it.”

You worried about it every day.

Breakfast wrapped up all too soon. Bucky argued when you paid for his coffee, you hushed him with a promise to let him cover yours next time. And in the blink if an eye, you found yourself standing next to him on the sidewalk, praying he wouldn’t walk away.  

“I should really get going,” he said, taking a step away from you. “I have a meeting.”

“Cool, yeah,” you forced a smile, “this was great- I’m so glad we ran into each other.”

Bucky nodded, “yeah, me too.”

It seemed to you that Bucky couldn’t care less if he ever saw you again. He was disengaged, disinterested, inching ever farther away. He tried to be subtle about it, tried to slowly escape the interaction. But you caught his tiny steps in the opposite direction. His body remained closed off, the space between you growing with each long, awkward pause. 

But even so, you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t let him walk away without knowing if this was the last time you’d see him. 

“We should do this again-” you sounded so needy, so anxious, but couldn’t find it in you to care, “but only if you want.” Never had you felt so pathetic. There you were, practically begging Bucky to signal that he gave a shit about you. 

But all he could muster was a nod. 

“Awesome,” you pulled out your phone. “Do you still have the same number?”

Again, he nodded. 

It killed you. All this time, you’d hoped that he got a new number and simply forgot to tell you. That your texts and calls went unanswered because he didn’t receive them. But he did, indeed, receive them. He just chose to ignore them.

With a swell of tears gathering behind your eyes, you sped through your goodbyes. You threw Bucky a hurried “great to see you, I’ll call soon” and quick smile before turning away and heading for a hiding spot, a concealed place to cry. The person you cared about more than anything, the person you adored, the person for whom you’d lay down your life, didn’t want you anymore. The bitter taste of rejection coated the inside of your mouth. And as you ducked into a bodega down the street, you feared you might get a second look at your breakfast.

You were gone too soon. Bucky wanted to call your name, to run after you. Even after months apart, he could still sus out when you were upset. He remembered your tells. Your dead giveaways. The way your jaw hardened against oncoming emotion. The tendency of your voice to grow thin and hollow as tears loomed on the horizon. 

He knew he hurt you. 

But he found himself stuck, his body defying the orders of his brain. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. He could only stand there, helpless, watching as you disappeared. 

He knew you couldn’t possibly be happy with him after he abandoned you; he was surprised that you even acknowledged him on the street- let alone invited him to breakfast. And after the way he acted at the diner, he was shocked that you asked to see him again. 

The conversation you had replayed on a loop inside his head, and he kicked himself for being so closed off. So cold. He’d sullied your reunion so severely- it was almost aggressive. He was dismissive. Curt. And he lied to your face- multiple times. 

He was so happy to see you- he didn’t want you to think otherwise. But he didn’t expect to run into you like that. He didn’t expect to be near you for another few months, at least. He had a plan, and he was doing his best to follow it with as few setbacks as possible. If he kept his head down and pushed himself, he could get to the point where he could explain. He could tell you the truth and make you part of his life again if you even wanted anything to do with him. Though he wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.

But running into you outside the motel wasn’t part of the blueprint. And he panicked.

He'd held you at arm’s length, never daring to get too close. He kept everything superficial. Surface level. It was the shallowest interaction he’d had with you to date. And it felt wrong. It didn’t fit who you were as people, who you were as friends. Your bond was never the skin deep, small talk type. No, you delved into one another’s deepest thoughts. Bared your souls. He’d never kept a secret from you- nor you him. But that was a different time.

Disappointed, Bucky unrooted his boots from the concrete and trudged off in the direction of his morning meeting. And while he did his best to focus, to participate, he could think of only you. The heartbreak in your eyes. The hurt in your voice. A wave of nausea barreled into him as he replayed the interaction again and again. You deserved better. And Bucky wished more than anything he that could be better. For you. 

But two nights later, your phone rang.

It was late- nearly midnight. You were curled up on the couch under a blanket, neck deep in your Vampire Diaries rewatch when your phone started to buzz. An unfamiliar number popped up on your screen, accompanied only by Siri’s suggestion of who might be calling.

‘Maybe: Kings County Jail’

You stared at it for three rings, wondering how someone from the jail got your number. And just as you were about to deny the call, something in your gut told you to answer it. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was divine intervention. Either way, you hit accept and held the phone up to your ear. 

“Um, hello?”

An automated message responded, “You are being contacted by a detainee at Kings County Jail. The detainee-” the recording paused, leaving space for someone to state their name.  Your favorite gruff voice followed, “Bucky-”

“-is trying to contact you. Do you accept the charges?”

A riptide coursed through your brain. Questions upon questions piled up, each one trying to escape your lips first. But you swallowed them for the time being. 

“Yeah- yes, I accept.”

The line connected, and Bucky’s soft “hey…” came through from the other end. “Thanks for picking up.”

“Buck? Is everything okay?”

He sighed, “Yeah, I’m- I’ve been better. But I’m fine. I was just wondering if,” he couldn’t believe he was doing this. “I was wondering if you could come bail me out?”

He gave no context, no reasoning, for his stint in the county jail. But you didn’t care. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Even after he ditched you and left radio silence in his wake, even after he practically ran from your reunion at the diner- you’d do anything for him. And there was no way in hell you’d ever just leave him there; you couldn’t. Bucky didn’t belong behind bars.

And so, you pulled yourself off the couch, found some shoes, and headed in his direction. 

The bail money didn’t matter to you. Sure, things were easier now that SWORD paid you the big bucks. But even if your account was running on empty, you’d sacrifice your last remaining cents to free Bucky. 

A guard led him down the hall by the arm and shoved him through the door. This wasn’t how he wanted you to see him. None of this fit into the plan he’d so carefully crafted all those months ago. But there you sat in the lobby of the police station, clad in your sweats, waiting for him. The shame nearly tore him apart from the inside out. 

But as he locked eyes with you across the room, he didn’t find the judgement or irritation that he expected. You should’ve been angry with him- why weren’t you angry with him? He’d called in a favor after abandoning you. He made you come down to the police station, made you pay his bail. You should’ve left him to rot in a jail cell. But you didn’t. Because you cared. Even after everything he did, you still cared about him. He wished you didn’t. He wished you’d scream at him in front of everyone- but you were too good for that. Too kind. 

He threw you a bashful wave, but averted his gaze when a warm smile crossed your face. He couldn’t quite stand the way your gracious expression made him feel. Why did you seem so happy to see him? Why weren’t you furious- or even a little frustrated? 

As he waited in line to gather his backpack and personal belongings from the desk, he hoped for something to prolong his time away from you. A clerical error. A massive stack of paperwork. What was he supposed to say to you? How was he supposed to explain this whole mess? He needed time to put his thoughts in order. To organize his lies. 

But, for the first time in history, a United States government agency did things efficiently and without error. And after only a few minutes, he made his way to your side. 

“Hey,” he granted you only a flash of eye contact before dragging his gaze to the floor. “Thanks for- thank you for coming to get me. And for paying my bail…”

You shrugged, “yeah, absolutely”.

“I’ll pay you back, I swear.” It was then he realized that he didn’t want you to be angry with him. Sure, you cursing him out in front of everyone would be easier. Less complicated. But he’d rather die than upset you again. 

“I know. I’m not worried about it,” you granted him another kind smile, “I trust you.”

It was a dagger to the heart. How- and why- did you still trust him? He’d excised you from his life without warning and left you in the cold; he wasn’t worthy of your trust. 

“Are you all good here?” you asked, “Should we get going?”

“Sure- yeah.”

The walk to the car was quiet; Bucky couldn’t bring himself to walk next to you. Existing in your sphere, being seen by you- it was too much for him. Too shameful. Even if he was only in your peripheral. And so, he opted to position himself a few paces behind you. In the safety of your shadow. 

He got settled in the passenger seat of your car as you turned the key in the ignition. But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull out of your parking spot. Everything in you wanted to ask how he ended up in handcuffs. He wasn’t a troublemaker. He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t the type to make waves. Something bad must’ve happened- something out of his control.

But you knew it wasn’t your business. He clearly didn’t want you around anymore, didn’t want to clue you in on the details of his life. And you never liked to pry. 

As the seconds passed, however, your resolve crumbled. No matter what happened between the two of you, you’d always care about Bucky. You’d always worry about him. And your concern finally got the best of you.

Before you could stop yourself, the words came tumbling out of your mouth. “Are you okay?” you stared at him, anxiety brewing in your chest. “You don’t have to tell me what happened- I won’t force you- but I’m worried about you.”

He nodded, “I’m fine.” It wasn’t rude, but his tone didn’t invite further probing. 

With a sigh and an unconvinced “okay”, you put the car in drive and prepared to take Bucky home.

Your blinker clicked incessantly as you waited for a few cars to grant you a clear path. Bucky had ample time to give you directions, but he remained quiet. He didn’t offer up information of any kind, not even a neighborhood. It broke your heart that you didn’t know his address.

“Um, where do you live? Should I turn left or right?” 

You waited patiently for an answer that Bucky didn’t seem to have.

“Actually, do you mind if-” he flashed you an apologetic smile, “could we just drive around for a while?”

Maybe he had some residual adrenaline from being arrested. Maybe being in jail gave him flashbacks to his captivity under Hydra. Either way, you knew he wouldn’t have asked to go for a drive unless he really needed it. Part of you was surprised, though, that he’d willingly spend more time with you. That he’d choose to share a confined space with you. He was all too happy with removing you from his life, and practically sprinted through your reunion breakfast. But after so many months of missing him, you’d take whatever extra time you could get.

The drive was quiet, though it did seem to help Bucky relax some. His leg stopped bouncing; his shoulders loosened up. Being around you had that effect on him; it wasn’t something he could help. But as he mellowed out, the questions swirling around your brain only multiplied.

At a red light, you tested the waters. “Can I ask you something?”

Bucky nodded. 

“What happened tonight? How did you end up in jail?”

A litany of emotions ran across Bucky’s face. Frustration, worry, shame, and sadness tied his expression in a knot. Part of him wanted to lie. He could say it was a bar fight. He could make up an elaborate story and placate you for the rest of the ride. But you bailed him out. You answered his call and showed up for him when he needed you. You sat, clad in your pajamas, in the waiting area of a dirty police station. For him. He owed you the truth.

“I was arrested for sleeping in the park,” he said, his tone flat.

It wasn’t at all what you expected to hear. No answer formed on your lips. You couldn’t pull your eyes from his face. The words sunk in, burrowing their way through your flesh and plunging into your heart. 

“Um, it’s- the light is green,” he said, snapping you out of your trance.

You hit the gas and accelerated on autopilot. And as soon as you made it through the intersection, you pulled over. Bucky’s confession knocked the wind out of you and robbed you of your focus. And if he had more to say, you wanted to give him your undivided attention.

“Why are we stopping-”

“Buck, why were you sleeping in the park?”

Bucky let loose a deep sigh that seemed to come right from his soul. “Because I don’t have anywhere else to sleep,” he shrugged. “I ran out of money.” He was silent for a moment, wondering just how honest he should be. “I’m supposed to be getting some POW benefits from the government, but you know, bureaucracy is slow.”

“Oh, Buck…” After everything he suffered through under Hydra, after the way the US treated him upon his arrival home, the least his country could do was pay him back. Or provide him with a safe place to sleep. But, once again, they failed him.

“You know that motel you saw me at the other day? I wasn’t there for a hook up; I’ve been staying there-” He corrected himself, “Well, I’ve actually been staying at a few different motels. None of them are extended stay, so I can’t be there more than a few nights.” 

He noticed the way your eyes grew sad, the way your mouth fell open the slightest bit. Heartbreak was written all over your face. “Sorry to disappoint you, I know you hoped I was getting some strange with someone from Tinder,” he shot you a wink and flashed a smile your way. But you couldn’t bring yourself to laugh.

Bucky, of all people, deserved a comfortable home. Someplace warm. Permanent. Someplace he could call his own. Someplace he could feel safe. But, instead, life gave him the short end of the stick. Again. 

“Anyway, no matter how cheap those motels are, paying for them every night adds up, you know? So, now I’m broke,” a rush of heat flooded his cheeks. Admitting to his situation was so embarrassing, so shameful, he thought he might drown in it. He was a grown- overgrown- adult who didn’t even have a roof over his head. “I got a warning from the cops last night -and the night before- for sleeping in the park. But tonight was my third strike, so…” He shrugged, “they arrested me.”

“Jesus Christ, cause not having a place to live is criminal?” you scoffed, “This country is ridiculous.”

“Trust me, it’s not for lack of trying,” Bucky quickly added on. He didn’t want you to think he wasn’t working on it, that he was slacking, that we was complacent in his situation. “I tried for a long time to get an apartment, but I either didn’t have enough money for the deposit or I’d get turned away when they realized who I was. Though it’s not like I could ever make rent…” 

When he learned how much an apartment in Brooklyn cost these days, a suffocating sense of hopelessness swallowed him whole. He knew he’d never be able to afford the one place he ever really saw as home.

“And I tried a few shelters, but they wouldn’t take me, either.” He didn’t know a shelter could turn people away; experiencing it first-hand broke him. “So um, the motels were my only option.”

Sobs blocked your airway and burned the inside of your nose. Tears pooled along your inner lash line; you prayed to god Bucky wouldn’t see them. You could sense his shame, his embarrassment; the last thing he needed was you crying over his circumstances. 

“What um,” you fought to keep your voice steady. “What about Sam?”

Bucky shrugged. “Sam’s been helping me with all the stuff for my benefits and getting my record expunged- he’s been a godsend. And he’s offered to let me stay with him more times than I can count. He’s offered me money- he even snuck some cash into my jacket pocket the other day,” Bucky gave a soft laugh. “But I can’t take any more from him; he’s already done too much for me.”

“I get that…” You knew Sam would happily let Bucky crash. But Bucky wasn’t the type to impose. “Sam’s a good friend.”

“He’s the best. I’m gonna pay him- and you- back, either when my benefits come through or whenever I can get a job. Whichever comes first.” It was a promise, a verbal contract. He didn’t want you thinking he wasn’t good for it- even if he wasn’t good for it quite yet. He knew he would be someday. And as soon as he had the money, you and Sam would be his first priority. 

“I keep applying for jobs on the off chance that someone will cut me some slack, but until my record gets expunged, I’m fucked. Every place I’ve applied to has done a background check, and every time, my name is surrounded by red flags.” He let out a sigh, “I’m still a criminal.”

Your heart buckled. He wasn’t a criminal- he never should’ve been burdened with such a title. He didn’t do anything wrong, he didn’t choose to be the Winter Soldier. But people didn’t care about the truth.

“What about SWORD?”

He shook his head, “They don’t want me. Hiring an ex-Hydra assassin doesn’t really work for their image. They’re trying to steer clear of the whole SHIELD thing…”

The two of you sat in silence for a long moment. Bucky hadn’t originally planned on laying everything so bare, he just couldn’t help himself. Opening up to you came naturally. But in the quiet, he felt naked. Exposed. He regretted spilling the details of his pathetic existence for you to see. 

But you’d never judge him. You simply wanted better for him. And wished he’d come to you when times got tough. 

The shards of your broken heart sliced through you with every breath. Imagining Bucky in rundown, roach infested motels or sleeping on an uncomfortable park bench on a cold night made you want to vomit. Waves of utter devastation crashed into you one after another, barely giving you enough time to breathe. But you couldn’t allow yourself to fall apart. Not when Bucky needed you.

When you finally steadied your breathing, you spoke. “Buck, can I ask- and I don’t mean this in an accusatory way,” you prefaced, “but why didn’t you come to me?”

“Because I care what you think about me,” he said, almost automatically. “Your opinion of me is important.”

“Well, my opinion of you hasn’t changed now that I know what’s been going on…”

A smile fought its way to Bucky’s lips. Logically, he knew you didn’t think less of him now that you knew the truth. He knew you were too kind to look down on him. But his anxiety didn’t think logically. The smile lasted only a second, as his worries about your perception got the better of him. 

“My life is a disaster,” he said. “I have almost nothing to my name. I don’t have any money. I don’t have a place to live. It’s humiliating.” He ran his palms up and down the length of his thighs, fighting the nervous energy. “I wouldn’t have even called you to bail me out if Sam was in town; I didn’t want you to know about all this.” 

Without a word, you pulled back onto the road. 

Bucky eyed the surrounding street, “Um, where are we going?” 

“My place,” you kept your eyes on the road. “I’m taking you to my apartment.”

Panic bloomed in Bucky’s chest. “Oh, no, it’s- that’s okay. I’m fine. You don’t have to do that.” A swell of anxiety barreled into him at the thought of you taking him home like a dirty, stray dog. He didn’t want to be a charity case or your good deed of the day. And as much as he would’ve loved to spend time in your home, he wished to do so under different circumstances. Circumstances that didn’t involve pity.

“You can really just drop me off anywhere-”

His words tore through you. “Buck, it’s late,” you cut a glance at him. “And it’s cold out. I’m not just leaving you on the side of the road somewhere. I-” you cleared your throat, “I care about you” 

Part of him wanted to open the door and jump from the moving car. Surely, it would be less humiliating. But the look on your face kept him from pulling the rip cord. Concern pulled your brows together. Worry made you bite at your lip. You genuinely cared about him, genuinely wanted to help. And though he could actually feel embarrassment seeping from his pores, he chose to stay. Because you caring about him trumped any and every other feeling.

“Okay, so, this is my place,” you said as you led Bucky though the front door of your apartment. You flicked on a few lights and kicked off your shoes, “make yourself at home.”

Bucky didn’t know how to do that anymore.

He stood stone still just inside the door, too overwhelmed and unsure to move. 

“Um, so, obviously, this is the kitchen- and that’s the living room,” you said, pointing to an area with a massive suede couch. “My bedroom and the guest room are down that hall, laundry is to the left, and guest bathroom is to the right, next to the office.” 

Bucky was impressed. The apartment was beautiful. You’d decorated to match your warm personality; it made him instantly comfortable. And it was nice- fancier than anything he could ever dream of affording. He was so proud of you. He knew you’d worked hard to get here, and seeing the fruits of your labor brought a smile to his face. He only wished he could’ve been a part of your journey. 

“This is really nice,” he said, taking a few more steps inside. “Is it all yours? Or do you have a roommate?”

“Nope, no roommate. Just me.”

Bucky’s brows lifted as he drank in the space. You paid for this place all on your own, no help from a roommate. He wondered what it felt like to be that stable, that secure. He never knew where he was sleeping from one night to the next, and you practically lived in a penthouse. 

“Um, we can sit, if you like,” you gestured toward the fancy couch, “it’s more comfortable than it looks, I promise.”

But Bucky didn’t go for it. “Actually, would you mind if I took a shower? I’m just- I feel pretty grimy from the motels. And the park. And the jail,” he felt his cheeks flush at the admission. He really was the filthy mutt you brought home from the pound. “I just don’t wanna sit on your couch when I’m gross like this.”

“Oh, sure. That’s- I totally get it. I should probably change my clothes, too.” 

With a wave of your hand, you gestured for Bucky to follow you to the bathroom. As you guided him through your apartment, he admired the art on your walls and the expensive rugs covering your floors. 

With a clearing of your throat, you gestured to the guest bathroom. “Everything you need should be in there but let me know if I can get you anything else. Can I throw your clothes in the laundry? I’ll wash whatever’s in your bag, too.”

Bucky gave you a strange look, “I appreciate it, but I don’t think you want me walking around here in a towel.”

You didn’t necessarily shy away from the idea, but this wasn’t the time for a suggestive response. “Okay, but- what are you gonna put on after you shower?”

Bucky shrugged, “I don’t know. Whatever I have in my backpack.”

You eyed the bag slung over his shoulder and imagined the heap of clothes he’d balled up and shoved inside. “Are they clean?”

Bucky thought for a moment, “Define ‘clean’.”

“Buck,” you laughed,  “just let me put your stuff in the wash.” You gave his backpack a gentle swat and motioned for him to relinquish it to you.

“So, you do want me walking around in a towel,” Bucky quirked a brow at you. “I knew it.”

“Oh my god,” you rolled your eyes, “just come with me.” 

Bucky did as he was told and followed you into your bedroom. It cloaked him in an instant warmth, a sense of home he hadn’t experienced in eighty years. The whole room seemed to glow with a cozy, welcoming aura. He wondered what it was like to fall asleep here every night, to wake here each morning. Well-loved books populated a large bookcase in the corner, an armchair sat near the window. Bucky could practically see you curled up on its large cushion, your nose buried in Pride and Prejudice. But a photo on the wall near your bed caught his eye. 

“Is that me?” He took a few steps inside your door and found his suspicion to be correct. 

It was a slightly out of focus candid shot of you and Bucky laying on the floor of the war room at the compound. Nat snapped it as the team talked through different strategies to bring everyone back from the blip. In the photo, you sported a massive smile, and had your face smushed against Bucky’s arm to stifle your laughter. Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his metal hand covering his mouth. You were both exhausted, and loopy, enjoying a moment of levity amidst a sea of tragedy.

“That’s my favorite picture,” something about your words came off sad. And Bucky knew it was because of him. The joy, the closeness exhibited in the photo didn’t exist anymore. He’d stripped your friendship of everything warm and left you out in the cold. Alone. 

You made your way over to the dresser and fished around in the bottom drawer, “let’s find you something to wear.”

“Um, I don’t…” Bucky chuckled, “I’m not gonna fit into any of your clothes.”

You cut glance at him, “I know that. That’s why I’m giving you…” With a grand gesture, you unearthed a pair of sweatpants, “your clothes.”

Bucky’s mouth fell open. He stared at the pair of charcoal gray sweats he lent to you ages ago, the pair you loved, the pair he told you to keep. He didn’t say anything when you plopped them in his hands; he was too stunned to speak.

“And here’s this,” you said as you draped a faded blue ‘NYC’ t-shirt over his shoulder. He’d loaned you that shirt so many times back at the compound, you wore it more than he did. Eventually, he started putting it in your closet instead of his on laundry day.

“Now, give me your bag and I’ll throw your stuff in the wash.”

Bucky finally dragged his eyes from the pair of pants and furrowed his brow at you. “Why do you still have this stuff?”

Something in you grew nervous. Was he mad? Or did he think you were a creep for holding onto his things? Maybe it was too weird of a gesture. Maybe you should’ve let him hang around in a towel after all.

“Cause I like wearing it,” you said with trepidation in your voice. “Your clothes were always more comfortable than mine. And I-” you cut yourself off. Saying ‘I miss you’ was too much. Instead, you rerouted, “I like to wear oversized stuff.”

Bucky nodded and gave a quiet “right” before thanking you and heading for the bathroom. At your request, he left his bag in the hall. You scooped it up and dumped his clothes into the washer before doubling back to the bathroom, where Bucky had dropped his dirty jail-clothes outside the door. You changed out of your dirty clothes from the police station and threw them in the laundry with Bucky’s. It was the closest you’d been in months.

Bucky nearly teared up as the water sliced through the layer of grime coating his skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a shower this hot. The motels always seemed to have faulty water heaters that only allowed for subzero temperatures. And at some of them, the water didn’t quite run clear. Sometimes, there was a brown tint. Other times, it was gray. And showers like those left only him feeling dirtier. 

But he didn’t want to think about the rust-eaten pipes of the decrepit motels in which he stayed. Instead, he basked in the nearly scalding water, the tiles that didn’t have moldy grout. For the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like a husk of himself, but a real person. All his time shuffling between park benches and rat-infested motels had stripped him of his personhood. And something as simple as a shower restored it. Though, deep down, he knew it wasn’t the incredible water pressure or the lavender body wash that had him feeling human again. It was you.

With the entirety of Bucky’s wardrobe in the washing machine, you paced lap after lap around the kitchen. Only a few days ago, you feared you’d never see Bucky again. And now, he was in your shower. After your chilly reunion at the diner, you couldn’t help but be mad at him, no matter how much you’d missed him. He was cool and aloof. He didn’t open up. And he didn’t seem at all interested in repairing your friendship.

But listening to him in the car laid almost every piece of the puzzle out before you. And though there were still gaps and empty spots, you nearly had the picture complete. Bucky didn’t ice you out because he hated you or didn’t want you anymore. He was simply too embarrassed to admit what he was going through. 

A sharp twinge of guilt needled at you. You shouldn’t have been mad at him after what happened at the diner. You shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions or assumed the worst. Bucky deserved better. You should’ve known in your heart that he was only pushing you away to protect himself. It was his nature; it always had been. You’d just been too hurt to see it.

“Your shower is unbelievable,” Bucky said as he padded into the kitchen, his hair still damp. “And those towels? They’re amaz-” A stack of Tupperware on the island caught his attention. “What’s all this?”

“Leftovers. I cooked dinner earlier tonight…” You shrugged, “I thought you might be hungry.”

He shifted his wide-eyed gaze from the food, forcing his eyes to land anywhere else. “Oh, no, that’s okay. I’m fine.”

You quirked a brow at him, “You’re not hungry?”

“No.” It was quiet but firm. 

“Really? Cause the Bucky I knew needed to eat like, six thousand calories a day.” Bucky’s insatiable hunger was a running joke between the two of you back then. He always finished your food when you couldn’t clear your plate, and snacked on anything he could get his hands on. On one occasion, he even fell asleep in your bed with his hand in bag of honey mustard pretzels. Hearing him refuse food was strange, almost alarming. “You always called yourself ‘Earth’s hungriest hero’”.

Bucky gave a small laugh, “yeah, damn super soldier serum will do that to your metabolism.”

You stared at him, “So…” 

“So?”

“So, do you want something to eat?” 

“No, really,” he shook his head, “I’m fine.” 

But you noticed the way his stare always returned to the stack of containers. Even after he’d pulled his focus from the food, his eyes found their way back. You sensed a longing in him, a deep desperation that left you gutted. Any jovial, lighthearted quality your words held fell to the wayside, making way for concern. 

“Buck, when’s the last time you ate?”

Bucky did his best to think back to his last meal but couldn’t find an answer. Part of him wanted to lie, to appease you with details of a made-up dinner from earlier that night. But he didn’t get the chance; his pause was too long for your liking. 

“Okay, if it’s taking you that long to remember, you need to eat.” It wasn’t an offer or a request, but an order. “Help yourself.”

But once again, he shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to impose-”

“It’s not an imposition,” your words came out with an unexpected fierceness; it almost sounded like a scold. The idea, the mere suggestion that Bucky could impose on you was ridiculous. You took a breath and softened your tone, “I live alone, and every recipe is for more than one person. There’s plenty.”

Before Bucky could refuse again, you opened the Tupperware and allowed him a look at the fruits of your labor. “There’s roasted chicken with rosemary and thyme, garlic mashed potatoes, and maple-glazed brussels sprouts.” Bucky’s eyes lit up. You could practically see drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. 

A sense of satisfaction enveloped you, like you’d finally banished Bucky’s unnecessary fear of imposition. But just in case he wasn’t sure, just in case you hadn’t won him over, you threw one last piece of information his way. “Oh, and there’s chocolate chip cookies over there.”

Bucky was almost overwhelmed. He took in the beautiful spread and gave the cookies a long glance; it was almost too much. “Woah, you weren’t kidding…” He gave a small laugh, “this is a lot of food.”

You shrugged, “I don’t know how to cook for one.”

With that, you handed Bucky a plate and let him go to town. He filled his dish with chicken, mashed potatoes, and brussels sprouts. But the look on his face signaled more relief than joy, more solace than happiness. You wondered how long he’d been without food, how long he’d worried about where his next meal would come from. As he stood over those plastic containers, that anxiety vanished- for the most part.

A debate raged inside of Bucky’s head. He was famished, literally starving. And you’d given him full access to a massive meal. But he didn’t want to overdo it. He knew he shouldn’t empty your Tupperware and leave you with nothing; he just he didn’t know when he’d eat again. And he could practically feel his body digesting itself. 

Before he could tighten the reigns, though, you spoke up. “Seriously, Buck, don’t be shy. I can’t finish all of this- it’ll just go bad.”

He nearly broke down. For so long, he knew only wanting, only appetite, only emptiness. And you offered him a respite. “I haven’t had a home cooked meal in…” Once again, his pause was too long; it crushed you. “Anyway, I really appreciate this.” He pulled his gaze from the food and gave you a long look filled with admiration. “And I’m impressed- I didn’t know you were such a culinary talent. I distinctly remember you burning ramen noodles to a blackened crisp more than once.”

The laugh that erupted from your chest filled the kitchen, “Well, I distinctly remember you eating my disgusting ramen without hesitation.”

Back when things were good between you and Bucky, you’d always volunteer to make dinner. Between strategy sessions and long, complicated meetings, the team simply forgot to eat. But you knew they needed nourishment to make defeating Thanos a realistic option. No one, however, wanted your charred ramen. Except for Bucky. He always accepted your offerings with a kind smile and a mountain of appreciation. He was grateful, no matter how awful it tasted, because it came from you.

“My therapist actually suggested I get into cooking,” you told Bucky as he popped his plate in the microwave. “I was really depressed and stopped caring about eating or taking care of myself. It felt pointless. But she told me some people find comfort in cooking. It’s almost meditative, you know? And if you focus on the recipe, you can’t think about all the um, the painful stuff.” 

Bucky knew he was ‘the painful stuff’.

“There was a bit of a learning curve, but now,” you shrugged, “I love it.”

“Oh, wow, that awesome. So you get some peace and a delicious meal? Sounds like a good deal.” He mulled it over, wishing he had a kitchen into which he could retreat. But the motels only ever had a microwave, and most of the time, it didn’t work.

“I had a therapist- well, a court appointed therapist,” he said, “she was the worst.”

You sighed. Why were things always so hard for him? Why did people treat him so terribly? 

“What was so terrible about her?”

“Honestly, I think she hated me,” defeat coated his words. “She was mean- I know that sounds childish, but I mean, the things she said were biting. They hurt. And she did it on purpose. I left every session feeling worse.” He thought back on his sessions with Dr. Raynor, on how she broke him down piece by piece until he was only a pile of ash. “She said I wasn’t a victim, and that I needed to take responsibly for the things I did and the choices I made.”

Anger surged inside your chest, “The choices you made?”

He nodded. “She was actually so terrible that I thought she worked for Hydra. I thought they were trying to get me back and that she was working undercover with them to manipulate me.” A small laugh broke free from his chest, “But she wasn’t. She’s just an asshole.”

“Jesus Christ, Buck…” You couldn’t imagine anyone being so awful, so hateful, toward Bucky. He was kind and warm. He showed people compassion and understanding. Why the world didn’t show him the same baffled you. “I hope you don’t see her anymore.”

He removed his plate from the microwave, “Oh, I don’t.” 

You sighed with relief, but it was a short-lived respite.

“I couldn’t afford to.”

He dove into his food before you could even usher him to the table. Between huge bites of potatoes and chicken, he praised your cooking. He swore on his life that this was some of the best food he’d ever had. It warmed your heart for a brief moment, but reality put a stop to the fuzzy feeling. Sure, you were a good cook. But you were certain than Bucky’s gushing compliments were the product of his empty stomach. He couldn’t even determine how long it had been since his last meal; of course, he was going to inhale his food with gusto and deem it ‘the best’.

It gnawed at you to see him like this. He laughed as you guided him to the table and settled into the seat across from him, but you didn’t match his lighthearted energy. He’d been struggling, suffering in silence without knowing where he’d get his next meal. For decades, Bucky knew nothing but pain. He was tortured, abused, treated like an animal. Hydra infected him like a parasite and devoured him from the inside out. They saddled him with PTSD and enough demons to fill even the deepest pits of hell. And after all that, life refused to give him a break. It killed you.

“I thought- correct me if I’m wrong, but- I thought court appointed therapy was paid for...” 

“Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t,” Bucky said with a mouth full of brussels sprouts. “It depends on the situation”. He threw a shrug your way and speared a piece of chicken with his fork, but a thought stopped him from shoveling it into his mouth. “Even if my appointments were supposed to be covered, I don’t think anyone wanted to give me anything for free.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Only the sound of Bucky’s fork scraping his plate interrupted the blanket of quiet. But the stillness made him squirm. Suddenly, he piped up.

“So, I did the required amount of sessions with that therapist and promised myself I’d never go back. It was tough, but I made it work. I scraped by.” His gaze took on a hollow quality, “That’s when I started staying in the really shitty places. The ones with asbestos and mold. And there was this one place where the sheets were stained with what looked like blood.” He grimaced, “I haven’t been back there.”

You forced a laugh, “Good call.”

Bucky shifted his focus back to his plate; he’d sprinted through his meal, leaving only a few bites remaining. The flicker of a frown ghosted across his face. The food was gone too soon, replaced by an empty plate. He was tired of everything in his life being empty- his bank account, his stomach, his heart. But he didn’t dare let himself wallow in self-pity with you sitting mere inches away. Instead, he overcorrected with a large smile, hoping you hadn’t noticed the look of disappointment he wore just moments earlier. He’d rather die than appear ungrateful, even if his hunger pangs had already returned.

“You can help yourself to seconds, there’s more than enough,” you took a look at the containers still sitting on the counter. Even after he’d piled his plate high, not a dent was made. “You can have thirds, fourths- I don’t care.”

Bucky shook his head as he cleaned his plate, “No, that’s alright. I’m good. Thank you, though.”

It was an egregious lie; maybe the worst you’d ever heard. 

“Buck, I can practically hear your stomach rumbling from here.” You knew him. Even after all this time apart, you knew him. You knew he was still hungry, especially after having gone so long without eating. His metabolism burned through fuel at a massively accelerated pace; he needed the calories. “Please, have some more.”

Once again, he shook his head. “I’m okay, really,” he gave you a smile. “Plus, I don’t want you to think I’m a freeloader.”

His words struck you in a strange way. Bucky never used to worry about your perception of him. And you never thought twice about how he saw you. There was a mutual respect and sense of comfort that didn’t fall victim to judgement. You accepted each other without hesitation. But Bucky couldn’t find his sense of security. He shifted in his seat and averted his eyes every so often, fearful of your inner monologue.

“Why are you so worried about what I think?”

Confusion lifted Bucky’s brow, “what do you mean?”

“You just said that you don’t want me to think you’re a freeloader. And in the car earlier, you said you didn’t reach out and ask me for help because you care about what I think.” You shrugged, “I just want to know why my opinion matters so much to you.”

“Because you’re my friend,” his tone was sure, steadfast. “I’ve always cared about your opinion.”

“Yeah,” hearing him call you his friend eased some of the tension in your neck. “And I care about what you think of me, too, but- I was never worried about it.” A sudden thought popped into your head, “I mean, I’ve been worrying about it lately, cause it kinda seemed like you hated my guts for a while there, but…” 

Bucky stared down at his empty plate. He didn’t want you pulling at this thread, didn’t want you unraveling his thought process. He prayed you’d drop the whole thing and move on. 

You didn’t.

“Sam’s your friend, too. Don’t you care what he thinks?” You feared coming on too strong, but you needed answers. “He knows about what you’ve been going through. You let him help you. You didn’t-” you stopped yourself. 

Bucky gave you an expectant look, “I didn’t what?”

“You didn’t cut him off.”

Bucky’s face fell. You never meant to hurt him, to make him feel bad about pushing you away. No matter how badly he hurt you, you’d never throw it in his face- especially after you learned why he did it.

“Buck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like-”

 “No, don’t apologize,” a sad smile crossed his face. “You’re right.” He was quiet for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. He planned on having this conversation with you someday, months from now. He didn’t have his script organized, didn’t know how to best express what he was feeling. Worry encapsulated him. What if he misspoke? What if he messed things up even worse?

“Things with Sam are different. He and I became friends because of Steve. We promised him we’d look out for each other.”

It sounded all too familiar. “You and I promised each other the same thing…” It was a pinky promise made on the living room floor of the compound. In the middle of the night, by the light of the fireplace, you swore to be there for one another come hell or high water. Never did you even consider breaking that covenant, that bond. You upheld your end of the bargain without issue. But Bucky fell short. 

He thought about that promise every night, berating himself for breaking it until he fell asleep. 

He sighed, “I know we did, but- that’s not the same thing. You and I became friends when everything fell apart. The entire universe was in chaos, everyone’s lives imploded.” He dragged his gaze downward, “You and I were on an even playing field back then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Back then, we were equals,” a faint smile flickered on his lips at the thought of those days he spent with you. They were dark, sure, but he remembered them fondly. Those were the days when he never left your side, the days when we woke up and fell asleep next to you. His favorite days. “We slept on the floor at the compound. We lived off ramen and red bull and worked around the clock to try and figure out how bring everyone back. We struggled. Together. But now…” He looked around your beautiful kitchen, “everything is okay again, and everyone has gone back to their lives. You’re doing well- really well. And I’m stillstruggling. I’m in almost the exact same position as I was back then.”

Words formed a traffic jam in your throat. Each new idea of how to comfort Bucky seemed too sappy, too corny. Just as a new phrase tried to exit your lips, you swallowed it. How were you supposed to make him feel better? How were you going to make any of this okay?

Bucky knew you were at a loss. He could see your desperate attempts to come up with a fix-it phrase for his situation, a way to assuage the way he felt. All you ever wanted was to make him feel better. “You have this great apartment and you’re working for SWORD. You found your way out. Meanwhile, I’m scrounging together any cash I can find to pay for a few nights in a rat-infested motel. Or I’m sleeping in the park- and getting arrested for it.”

He was going through a hard time- a really hard time. His life was in shambles and a new hardship greeted him at every turn. But you couldn’t make sense of his departure from your life. If anything, he should’ve grown closer to you, shouldn’t he? He should’ve leaned on you, asked you for help, sought comfort in your arms. 

“I guess I’m just- does that automatically mean we can’t be friends?”

Bucky’s humiliation piled on top of itself. It grew with each breath, with each passing moment. Admitting just how destitute he was, how utterly lacking- it destroyed him. “No, but- who wants to be friends with that guy? Who wants to hang out with the guy who can’t figure his shit out?” A strange mixture of frustration and melancholy dripped from his words. “I have nothing. And I’m just not- I can’t be your friend yet.”

His words hit you like a train. “We were already friends; you were my closest friend-”

“We were rock bottom friends,” his voice was low, hollow. “We were wartime friends.” It came out almost as a recitation, as thought this was something he told himself to justify his actions. 

You swore he made up that phrase right there in your kitchen. It seemed more like an excuse than an explanation. “What does that even mean?”

“A wartime friend, it’s- it’s the person you cling to when the world implodes. The person you’d never actually be friends with in real life, but you lean on them when life falls apart because they’re just- they’re there.”

The day you two met, Bucky found you crying in a supply closet at the compound. You were at the end of your rope, heartbroken over the loss of friends and family. Never had you experienced such an earth-shattering loss. You had no one- nothing. But Bucky was there for you. For a moment, you weren’t alone. You had someone. And he quickly became your favorite someone.

“People get desperate during wartime, you know?” Bucky continued, “They’ll befriend anyone if it brings them even a sliver of peace or comfort.”

“So, you thought-”

“I thought for sure that’s what you were doing.” 

Bucky stood from his chair. Anxiety ate away at him from the inside, leaving him unable to sit any longer. “I mean, you knew who I was. You knew I was a mentally ill, train wreck of a person. I figured we’d buddy up until the clouds parted- since neither of us had any other options- and then when things when back to normal, you’d find your real friends.”

He considered himself a consolation prize, a leftover. He didn’t know that, from the very beginning, you considered him a ‘real’ friend.

“But after knowing you for a few days, I wasn’t okay with that anymore,” his words came out hurried, almost frantic. “I wanted to be friends with you for real. I wanted you to want me around after we fixed everything. But I knew there was no way you’d want me as a friend outside of the shitstorm.” 

The realization played out across his face in real time. You watched happiness turn to disappointment, to despair, to desperation. 

“So, I just resigned myself to enjoy our time while it lasted. I knew it was all the friendship I could ever hope to get from you-” A shy smile pulled at his lips, “though, I was lucky to be close to you for any measure of time.” 

The smile faded, “but then when it was all over, and things went back to normal, you kept reaching out. You kept trying to get in touch with me and I- I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t make sense of it-” 

You gave a small shake of your head, “I missed you. I needed you. I just wanted to see you…”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to react. I panicked.” The nervous energy left Bucky’s buddy all at once. He slid into his chair and let his spine rest heavy against the wood. A sense of dejection befell him like and angry, icy sleet. “I didn’t want you to see me struggle in real life. I didn’t want you to see how much my actual life resembled the disaster we’d been living in. Cause when you look at my situation in the cold light of day it’s…” he swallowed the urge to hide from his humiliation. “It’s ugly. There’s no romanticizing what I’m dealing with.”

“I know you’re going through a lot right now.” For the first time in almost a year, you reached across the table for his hand. And for the first time in almost a year, he let you. “But Buck, you are not the only person struggling. I know it feels that way, but there are still so many people trying to get their lives on track after the blip- I’m still trying to get my head right. No one has a perfect life.”

Bucky gave a gentle scoff, “I know, but yours is a lot closer to perfect than mine.”

Again, you found yourself at a loss. No pep talk, no encouraging words, could make Bucky feel better about his situation. And nothing you could say had the power to fix how he felt about the state of his life. Instead of speaking, you opted to wrap his hand in both of yours the way you used to. You only hoped it would comfort him like the old days.

After a while, Bucky spoke again, “I just wanted to get my life together before I saw you again. You know? Cause my situation right now is embarrassing. I was afraid to admit the truth of my reality.”

You nodded, “And that’s why-”

“That’s why I was so weird when we ran into each other the other day,” he confirmed. He cringed at the way he acted, the way he treated you. It was all wrong. “I knew you saw me leave the motel. I knew I couldn’t pay for a meal at that diner. I was afraid that, as we spent more time together, you’d put the puzzle pieces in place and figure out that I’m a mess.”

His sense of frantic desperation reclaimed him all at once. He leaned forward and captured your hands in his own as his gaze bore into yours. “I never wanted to cut you out of my life- you have to know that. I need you to know that.” 

Tears formed along your lash line, creating a haze around your vision. “I know.”

“I just needed time,” he said. “I needed time to prove that I’m not a loser, that I’m good enough- I just wanted to be good enough for you.”

“Buck, you didn’t have to prove anything to me. And what do you mean you needed to be good enough? I’ve only ever wanted you to be yourself...” It was the most certain, the surest you’d ever been of anything. Bucky was exactly enough. He was himself, and that was all you could ever ask.

“And hey, I bailed you out of jail tonight without having any idea what you did- I didn’t even ask. I didn’t care. I was going to be there for you, regardless. Because I care about you.”

The storm clouds in his eyes parted. He hadn’t even thought about that, about how you paid for his release without context. If ever he doubted how you felt about him, that gesture was enough to set him straight.

He bowed his head a moment, thanking his lucky stars for your gracious nature. “I know you care about me. And I’m so sorry I abandoned you like that- I never wanted to hurt you. I just didn’t know what to do…”

“It’s okay,” you sniffled. 

Bucky freed your hands for a moment, allowing you to wipe the tears flowing down your cheeks. He recaptured them as soon as he could, even if your knuckles were still damp. 

“Well, it’s not okay- like, don’t do it again,” you joked. “But I understand now why you felt the way you felt. And you understand that I want you in my life, full stop. Right?”

Bucky nodded, “Yeah, I get that now.”

With the deepest sigh of relief you could muster, you banished the feeling of abandonment Bucky with which Bucky saddled you. You shed your fears, your worries. The deep pit that formed in your stomach all those months ago closed, the prickling anxiety in your chest faded away. And for the first time in long time, you breathed easy.

“Just so you know- and I don’t wanna hear any complaints or refusals on this-” you gave Bucky a look, prompting him to nod in agreement. “You have to have at least one more plate of food.”

A rebuttal brewed beneath Bucky’s surface, his fear of imposing rearing its ugly head. He’d already called in a massive favor, had you pay his bail, used your shower, and eaten your food. The anxiety of overstepping vibrated inside his skull. But he kept his promise and nodded in agreement. 

“And-”

“And?” he gave you an exasperated look. 

You gave a firm nod, “Yes, there’s an ‘and’!” 

Bucky sighed out a tired laugh, “What more could there be?” A sudden darkness eclipsed his expression. His smile fell, his laugh halted. Anxiety had him by the throat. His snaked his hands away from yours and tightened them into tight fists. “I already feel like I’m taking advantage…”

“You’re not. I promise.” All at once, you were fed up with sitting across from him. You needed to be closer, as close as possible. Bucky needed to feel your sincerity, to hear your words loud and clear. In a flash, you gave up your seat across the table for the one right next to him. “You can’t impose or take advantage- not here. Because…”

Bucky eyed you with a nervous glance, “because?”

“Because… you live here now!” A victorious laugh fluttered out of your throat, “Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

Shock overtook Bucky’s expression. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. His heart raced, his hand shook. All color drained from his face. “No, I can’t- that’s too nice…” He stared at you, “Are you serious?”

You nodded, “Dead serious. This is your home now, too.” Suddenly, you felt the need to clarify. “But only if you want. This isn’t like, a hostage situation or anything.”

Bucky’s head fell back in a loud laugh that nearly brought tears to your eyes. He hadn’t felt this carefree, this at peace, in a very long time. He didn’t remember the last time he laughed this way. 

“Well, that is a relief,” he said with a chuckle. “I’d love to live here with you, I’d be- I’m so…” Suddenly, his hands found yours. He squeezed your fingers until your pulse throbbed against your skin. His anxiety practically seeped into your bones. “But I swear, I’m not gonna stop looking for a job or trying to get my benefits. I promise. I’m not gonna sit around like a deadbeat and mooch off you-”

“Buck, don’t worry about that right now, okay?” 

He shook his head, “And I won’t stay here too long, I’ll-”

“Hey,” With great effort, you pulled your hands from his and places your palms against his cheeks. “There’s no move out date. There’s no ticking clock. You’re allowed to live here as long as you want- I want you here.” You shot him a smile, “Plus, I’ve missed you- a lot. So this arrangement is good for me, too.”

A swirling cloud of worry hovered above Bucky’s head. He was overwhelmed, you could tell. He tensed his jaw, his shoulders. His every muscle went rigid. “But are you sure? This is generous- it’s too generous.”

“I’m sure. Here-” You stood from your chair and gestured for him to do the same, “I thought you might need this.”

With that, you enveloped him in a tight hug. Back at the compound, a hug from you could solve any and every problem for Bucky. And his embrace did the same for you. There was something so warm, so welcoming about the arms of the other. It was salvation, it was solace. It was home. Without a place to live, Bucky could survive. But without you, without his home, he’d been lost. As he wrapped his arms around you, though, his entire world changed. And the severed soul tie you feared would never heal grew back once again, stronger than ever.

-----------------------------------------

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[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the fool)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: Keep in mind how canon events have been altered to suit the narrative of this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence)

- Previous part: absolution

- Next part: to mend

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril

Jaime woke to the scent of rot and the sharp sting of something cold against his arm. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and for a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. The blurred edges of reality came into focus slowly—a damp, dimly lit chamber, the air thick with the coppery tang of blood and the faint, acrid odor of burning herbs.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a voice drawled, soft and unhurried.

Jaime turned his head slightly, the motion sending a dull ache through his skull. His vision sharpened enough to make out a gaunt figure seated beside him. The man’s pale face was framed by thinning hair, his dark eyes gleaming with something that might have been curiosity—or amusement.

“Who…?” Jaime’s voice cracked, his throat dry and raw.

“Qyburn,” the man said smoothly, dipping a cloth into a bowl of murky water. “Former maester of the Citadel. Now… a man of many talents.”

Jaime tried to push himself upright, but a agonizing pain in his arm forced him back down. He glanced to the side and saw his stump, the bandages now clean and tightly wrapped. The sight sent a wave of nausea rolling through him, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay still.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Qyburn said, dabbing at Jaime’s forehead with the damp cloth. “You’ve been fevered for days. It’s a miracle you’re alive, truly.”

Jaime let out a bitter laugh, his voice rasping. “A miracle, is it? You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel particularly blessed.”

Qyburn’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “You’ve been through quite the ordeal. Fever dreams often bring… interesting revelations.”

Jaime frowned, his mind still sluggish. “What are you talking about?”

“You were whispering,” Qyburn said, his tone almost teasing. “Quite a lot, actually. Names, mostly.”

Jaime’s chest tightened, and he looked away, his jaw clenching. “Cersei,” he muttered. “It was her name, wasn’t it?”

Qyburn chuckled softly, the sound low and knowing. “Once or twice, yes. But mostly, it was another name. A Stark name.”

Jaime’s head snapped toward him, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. “What?”

“Oh, yes,” Qyburn said, his dark eyes gleaming. “You spoke of her often. Y/N Stark. Quite fondly, I might add. Almost as if…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

Jaime’s throat tightened, his mind racing to recall anything he might have said. He cursed his fever-addled state, his vulnerability. “What do you want, Qyburn?” he snapped, his voice sharper now.

“Only to help,” Qyburn replied smoothly, though his amusement was clear. “Your secret is safe with me, Ser Jaime. For now, at least.”

Jaime glared at him, but the effort only made his head pound. He sank back against the rough cot, his breaths shallow as he tried to piece together his fractured thoughts.

“What about her?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now. “The Stark girl. And the wench.”

Qyburn’s smile faded slightly, his expression becoming more serious. “They’re safe for now. Lord Bolton seems to value them as much as he does you, though for different reasons.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “What does he want with Y/N?”

“Ah, that is the question, isn’t it?” Qyburn said, his tone almost cheerful. “He watches her closely, speaks little but observes everything. It seems he’s… intrigued by her. Perhaps he sees an opportunity. Or perhaps he simply enjoys the thought of holding a Stark under his roof.”

Jaime’s chest burned with anger, his mind conjuring images of Roose Bolton’s cold, calculating stare. “If he touches her—”

“You’re in no position to make threats, Ser Jaime,” Qyburn interrupted, his voice cutting but calm. “Your health is precarious, to say the least. And you’ll be of no use to anyone if you don’t recover.”

Jaime clenched his fist, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “What do you care about my recovery?”

“I’m a healer,” Qyburn said simply, though the glint in his eyes suggested there was far more to it. “And I find you fascinating. Besides, Lord Bolton has ordered you to be kept alive. For now.”

Jaime let out a shaky breath, his thoughts a tangled mess. The mention of your name, the faint memory of your voice cutting through his fevered dreams—it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t fully understand.

“I don’t need your pity, Qyburn,” he muttered, his voice low.

“Pity?” Qyburn replied with a faint chuckle. “No, Ser Jaime. What I offer is far more valuable than pity. I offer survival. Whether you choose to accept it is up to you.”

Jaime closed his eyes, the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him like a stone. As Qyburn continued his ministrations, Jaime’s thoughts drifted back to you—to the defiance in your eyes, the sharp edge in your voice.

He didn’t know why you haunted him, why your presence lingered in his mind even now. But as sleep threatened to claim him once more, one thing became painfully clear: you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

The dining hall of Harrenhal was as cold and lifeless as the rest of the cursed castle. The long table, illuminated by flickering torches and a pair of sputtering candelabras, was laden with a sparse spread of bread, meat, and wine. Jaime stepped into the room, his steps faltering slightly as his fever-weakened body struggled to keep pace with the image of control he so desperately clung to.

The first thing he noticed was you.

You sat near the head of the table, your back straight, your expression as irked. The dress they’d forced you into—dark blue velvet with silver accents—was beautiful, but it was clear from the tension in your shoulders and the glare you aimed at Roose Bolton that you would rather be anywhere else. Your hair, usually windblown and wild from travel, was neatly arranged, though it did little to soften the fiery defiance in your eyes.

Brienne sat beside you, her broad shoulders hunched awkwardly in a plain dress that did her no favors. The indignation in her expression was clear, though she kept her mouth shut, her hands gripping the edge of the table as if to ground herself.

And then there was Roose.

The Lord of the Dreadfort sat at the head of the table, his pale face calm and unreadable, his eyes flicking to Jaime as he entered. He gestured to an empty seat across from you, his tone as smooth as ever. “Ser Jaime. Please, join us.”

Jaime forced a smirk, though his stomach churned. He moved to the indicated seat, lowering himself carefully into the chair and resting his good arm on the table. “Quite the gathering,” he said dryly, his gaze flicking between the three of you. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Roose poured himself a glass of wine, his movements deliberate. “Consider it a farewell, of sorts,” he said.

Jaime’s brow furrowed slightly. “Farewell?”

“Yes,” Roose replied, his tone calm and measured. “You’ll be leaving us soon. I’ve arranged for you to be escorted back to King’s Landing. Along with your… companion.” His eyes shifted briefly to Brienne, who stiffened in her seat.

Jaime raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening faintly. “How generous of you, my lord. I assume you’ll be sending me off with a full parade as well?”

Roose ignored the jab, his gaze steady. “I understand the value of a Lannister. Your safe return to your father will smooth tensions and ensure certain… understandings remain intact.”

Jaime’s smirk faltered as his gaze flicked to you. “And what about her?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Roose’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, though there was no warmth in it. “Lady Y/N will remain here. She’ll be returning to the North with me.”

Your glare intensified, but Roose didn’t seem to notice—or care.

“To the North?” Jaime repeated, his tone steady. “For what purpose?”

Roose took a sip of his wine, his pale eyes gleaming. “A purpose that benefits both of us. I am in need of a wife, and a Stark carries a name that commands respect.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling like a stone. Brienne’s knuckles whitened as her grip on the table tightened, her jaw clenching. You, however, leaned forward slightly, your voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

“You think I’d marry you?” you hissed, your eyes blazing. “After everything you’ve done?”

Roose met your gaze with unnerving calm. “You’ll find that defiance does little to change the inevitabilities of war, my lady. Your brother’s position weakens every day, and alliances must be forged to ensure survival.”

“I would rather die,” you snapped, your voice trembling with fury.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Roose replied smoothly, his tone unbothered.

Jaime’s fingers curled into a fist beneath the table, his chest tightening as he watched the exchange. The thought of you trapped in Roose Bolton’s cold, calculating grasp sent a surge of anger through him that he hadn’t felt in years.

“This is madness,” Jaime said, his voice low but firm. “You’ll have a rebellion on your hands if you force this. Robb Stark will never allow it.”

Roose turned his gaze to Jaime, his smile faint but chilling. “The Young Wolf will have little say in the matter. He is far from here, and my reach grows longer every day.”

Jaime gritted his teeth, his mind racing. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Bolton. Even Tywin wouldn’t—”

“Your father understands the value of pragmatism,” Roose interrupted, his tone calm but cutting. “And so do I.”

The table fell silent once more, the animosity thick and suffocating. Jaime’s gaze flicked back to you, noting the way your hands trembled slightly as they rested in your lap. Despite your defiance, the weight of the situation was pressing down on you, and it was clear you were fighting to keep control.

Jaime felt a pang of something he couldn’t name—something that twisted in his chest as he looked at you.

He couldn’t let this happen. Not to you.

But for now, he forced himself to remain silent, his mind churning with the beginnings of a plan. He would find a way to stop this. He had to.

The faint clinking of cutlery against plates was the only sound, an overwhelming contrast to the unspoken storm swirling around the table. Jaime’s left hand trembled slightly as he reached for his goblet, the fever still gnawing at him and his arm aching from the crude bandages. The awkwardness of eating with one hand only deepened his discomfort, but he refused to show weakness.

You, seated across from him, noticed.

He saw the flicker of something in your eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or pity. He hated the thought of the latter but couldn’t look away as you finally set down your knife and leaned forward slightly.

“Here,” you said softly, your voice sharp but steady.

Before Jaime could protest, you reached across the table and steadied his goblet, guiding it to his lips. The act was mechanical, devoid of warmth, but it was help nonetheless. Jaime hesitated, his pride battling against the practicality of the moment. He allowed it, tilting his head slightly to drink, though his jaw tightened at the faintest hint of humiliation.

“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered, withdrawing your hand and returning to your meal.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaime replied, his voice low but tinged with bitterness.

Roose Bolton, seated at the head of the table, observed the exchange with an unsettling calm. His pale eyes moved between the two of you, his expression unreadable, though the faint curl of his lips suggested amusement.

“You make an interesting pair,” Roose remarked, breaking the silence.

Jaime raised an eyebrow, his smirk faint but present. “A pair of what, my lord? Prisoners? Or pawns?”

Roose ignored the jab, his gaze settling on you. “Lady Stark,” he said smoothly, “you will remain here in Harrenhal tonight. Tomorrow, we will begin our journey north.”

Your fork clattered against your plate as you froze, your shoulders stiffening. Jaime’s own chest tightened at the words, and he set his goblet down with a deliberate motion.

“And what of me?” Jaime asked, his voice quieter now but no less biting.

“You will leave for King’s Landing,” Roose said calmly, sipping from his goblet. “As I mentioned, you and your companion will be escorted to your father. It is the… practical choice.”

Jaime leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze locked on Roose. “And I suppose you think Tywin will overlook the fact that your man sawed off my hand?”

Roose tilted his head, his smile faint. “Your father is a pragmatic man. He will be displeased, of course, but his displeasure will be tempered by the fact that you are alive.”

Jaime clenched his jaw, his mind racing as he fought to find the right angle. “If you want to keep Tywin placated, then send her with me,” he said, nodding toward you. “A Stark at his side will soften the blow of your… oversight.”

Your head snapped toward Jaime, your eyes narrowing. “I’m not a bargaining chip, Lannister.”

Jaime ignored you, his focus entirely on Roose. “Think about it,” he continued. “A gesture of goodwill to the Lannisters. A sign that you’re willing to smooth over any… misunderstandings.”

Roose leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. “An intriguing suggestion,” he said softly, his tone devoid of any real emotion. “But ultimately unnecessary.”

Jaime’s smirk faltered. “Unnecessary?”

“Yes,” Roose replied, his voice calm but cold. “I do not need Tywin Lannister’s forgiveness, nor do I seek his favor. My position is secure, and the Young Wolf has far more pressing concerns than the fate of his sister.”

Jaime’s frustration simmered beneath the surface, his fist clenching against the table. “You’re playing with fire, Bolton.”

Roose’s eyes flicked to Jaime’s stump, his smile faint but pointed. “Perhaps. But I’ve always been careful with my flint.”

The conversation ended abruptly, the weight of Roose’s words settling over the table like a heavy cloak. You stared down at your plate, your jaw tight, while Brienne shifted uncomfortably beside you, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

Jaime leaned back in his chair, his chest tight with anger and frustration. He had played his hand, and Roose Bolton had dismissed it without a second thought.

As the meal dragged on, Jaime’s thoughts circled back to you—your defiance, your fire, and the way you had steadied his hand despite everything. He hated how much he admired it, how much he felt it.

And as the night deepened and the shadows grew long, Jaime knew one thing for certain: Roose Bolton might hold the upper hand now, but Jaime would find a way to tip the scales. For you. For himself. For survival.

The morning air was damp and heavy as Jaime stood in the shadow of Harrenhal’s crumbling walls, the weight of the castle’s ominous presence pressing down on him. The small party that would escort him and Brienne to King’s Landing was gathered nearby—half a dozen men, armed but disheveled, and Qyburn, who was busy fussing with supplies loaded onto a mule.

Jaime adjusted the sling supporting his maimed arm, the motion sending a sudden jolt of pain through his shoulder. His face remained impassive, though his mind churned with frustration. His gaze kept drifting back to the keep where he knew you were being held, your defiance the only thing keeping you from crumbling under Roose Bolton’s calculated cruelty.

He hated that he couldn’t get the image of you out of his head—the fire in your eyes, the strength in your voice. And now, the thought of leaving you behind with Bolton gnawed at him like a festering wound.

Brienne stood beside him, her expression a mixture of unease and determination. She had been quiet since the announcement of their departure, her eyes darting toward the keep as often as Jaime’s.

As Qyburn fussed over the mule, Jaime leaned closer to Brienne, his voice a low whisper. “We can’t leave her here.”

Brienne stiffened, her blue eyes narrowing as she turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jaime said, his tone sharper now. “The Stark girl. We can’t leave her with Bolton.”

Brienne’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking to the keep again. “It’s not our decision to make,” she said, though there was a hint of hesitation in her voice.

“Since when do you care about decisions?” Jaime shot back, his voice low but biting. “You care about what’s right. And leaving her here isn’t right.”

Brienne’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fists clenching at her sides. “Even if I agree with you, how do you propose we take her with us? Roose Bolton isn’t exactly accommodating.”

Jaime smirked faintly, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

Brienne’s expression hardened. “You’re a fool.”

“Maybe,” Jaime admitted, his gaze drifting back to the keep. “But I’m also right.”

Brienne sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging slightly. “You’re asking for a miracle, Lannister.”

“I’m asking for a chance,” Jaime countered. “She doesn’t belong here. And if we leave her behind…” He trailed off, the weight of his words hanging heavily between them.

Brienne didn’t respond immediately, her gaze thoughtful as she watched the keep. Finally, she muttered, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jaime nodded, relief mingling with the ever-present ache in his chest. “Good. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, Brienne, it’s that you’re not one to walk away from a fight.”

Brienne’s glare returned, though she said nothing, her focus shifting back to the task at hand.

As the small party prepared to depart, Jaime couldn’t help but glance toward the keep one last time, his thoughts consumed by you. He didn’t know how, but he would find a way to bring you with them. Because leaving you behind with Roose Bolton wasn’t an option—not for him.

Not anymore.

The chill of Harrenhal’s damp stone walls seeped into your bones as you sat by the narrow window of your chamber, staring out at the overcast sky. You had been restless all night, the thought of Roose Bolton’s quiet threats lingering in your mind. The faint sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway outside, growing louder until the heavy wooden door creaked open.

Roose Bolton stepped inside, his pale face as unreadable as ever, his eyes gleaming with calm calculation. Behind him, a servant hovered nervously, carrying a folded dress draped over their arm.

“Lady Stark,” Roose said smoothly, his voice as cold and biting as a winter wind. “I trust you’ve rested well.”

You turned to face him, your expression hard. “I doubt anyone rests well in this place.”

His lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps the North will offer you more comfort. We leave in a few hours. I suggest you prepare yourself.”

You stiffened, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You expect me to go willingly?”

Roose stepped further into the room, his movements unhurried. “Willingness is irrelevant,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm. “You are a Stark, and your presence in the North will serve a purpose. Whether you cooperate or not is of little consequence to me.”

The servant stepped forward, holding out the dress—a modest gown in muted greys and reds, clearly chosen to reflect Bolton’s house colors more than your own.

Your jaw clenched as you stared at it, your anger bubbling beneath the surface. “You think dressing me in your colors will make me your pawn?”

Roose tilted his head slightly, his expression as impassive as ever. “You misunderstand, my lady. This is not about control. It is about practicality. The North is harsh, and its people respect tradition. A Stark by my side will strengthen my position and ensure stability in uncertain times.”

Your glare intensified, your voice low and seething. “You’re using me to betray my brother. Do you honestly think I’ll help you?”

Roose’s gaze didn’t waver, his calm demeanor unshaken by your fury. “Help or hinder, it makes little difference. Your presence is all that is required. The rest will fall into place.”

You turned away, your hands gripping the edge of the window ledge as you tried to steady your breathing. The thought of being paraded through the North as some sort of prize, a tool in Bolton’s schemes, made your skin crawl.

“Is there anything else, my lord?” you asked coldly, refusing to meet his gaze.

Roose lingered for a moment before stepping closer, his voice dropping to a quieter tone. “I understand your anger, Lady Stark. But anger will not change the course of events. It would be wise to accept your new reality.”

You turned to face him then, your eyes blazing with defiance. “The North remembers,” you said through gritted teeth. “And so will I.”

Roose studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded to the servant, who placed the dress on the bed before retreating from the room.

“We leave in two hours,” Roose said, his tone returning to its usual calm. “Do not keep me waiting.”

With that, he turned and left, the door creaking shut behind him.

You stood in the silent room, your chest heaving with frustration and fear. The dress lay on the bed like a symbol of your captivity, its muted colors mocking you.

But as the minutes ticked by, your mind began to race, searching for any way to delay, to escape, to fight back. You wouldn’t go quietly. You couldn’t.

Not while there was still a chance—however slim—to turn the tide.

The sound of shouting and clanging steel echoed through the halls of Harrenhal, jolting you from your tense pacing. The din seemed to come from the courtyard, loud and chaotic, as if the very air was charged with impending violence. You rushed to the narrow window of your chamber, peering down at the scene below.

A skirmish had broken out. Men in mismatched armor clashed with swords and axes, their movements wild and desperate. At the center of the fray, you spotted Brienne, her towering frame unmistakable as she wielded her sword with brutal efficiency. Her strikes were measured, powerful, and unrelenting, forcing Roose’s guards into disarray.

Your heart raced, your mind struggling to make sense of the chaos. Then, amidst the tangle of bodies, you spotted Jaime. He was moving with purpose, slipping through the melee with a deftness that belied his injured state.

He’s coming for me, you realized, your breath catching.

The courtyard was a cacophony of shouts and clashing steel, the air thick with dust and blood. Jaime ducked under a wild swing from one of Roose’s guards, his good hand gripping the hilt of a borrowed sword. The weight of the weapon felt foreign, unbalanced, but he pushed forward, his focus clear.

Behind him, Brienne was a force of nature, her blade carving a path through their enemies. She had started the brawl without hesitation, her roar of defiance startling even the most hardened of Bolton’s men.

“Go!” she had shouted at Jaime, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Find her!”

Jaime hadn’t needed to be told twice. The plan was simple, reckless, and brilliant in its execution. Brienne would hold their attention, giving him the chance to reach you before Roose could react.

His chest heaved as he dodged another blow, his feet pounding against the uneven stones as he broke free from the skirmish. The keep loomed ahead, its shadowed entrance a beacon amidst the chaos.

She’s there. She has to be.

The door to your chamber burst open, two of Roose’s guards rushing inside with weapons drawn. “Stay where you are!” one of them barked, his voice rough and commanding.

Your heart raced as you backed toward the window, your mind working frantically. The shouts from the courtyard were growing louder, and the guards were clearly distracted.

Now or never.

Before they could react, you lunged for the small table near the bed, grabbing the heavy ceramic pitcher and hurling it at the nearest guard. The pitcher shattered against his helmet with a deafening crack, sending him stumbling backward.

The second guard cursed, moving toward you with his sword raised. You ducked under his swing, your hands finding the edge of the wooden chair nearby. With all your strength, you swung it at him, the impact sending him reeling.

The first guard recovered quickly, but before he could grab you, you bolted for the door. Your bare feet slapped against the cold stone as you sprinted down the corridor, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

The halls of Harrenhal were eerily quiet compared to the chaos outside. Jaime’s steps echoed off the stone walls as he moved deeper into the keep, his focus narrowing with every turn.

He heard the sound of running footsteps before he saw you.

You rounded the corner suddenly, your hair disheveled, your face flushed with effort. Your eyes locked onto his, widening in surprise before narrowing in determination.

“Lannister,” you breathed, your tone equal parts relief and suspicion.

“Stark,” he replied, his smirk faint despite the urgency of the moment. “Miss me?”

Before you could respond, shouts erupted from behind you. The guards were in pursuit, their heavy boots pounding against the stone.

Jaime’s smirk faded as he stepped forward, his sword raised. “Get behind me,” he said, his voice low but commanding.

For once, you didn’t argue.

The first guard rounded the corner, his blade glowing eerily in the torchlight. Jaime met him head-on, his good hand steady despite the weight of the sword. The clash of steel echoed through the hall as Jaime parried the guard’s strike, his movements calculated and precise.

“Go!” Jaime barked over his shoulder, his voice sharp. “Find Brienne and get to the courtyard!”

You hesitated, your gaze flicking between him and the approaching guards.

“Now!” Jaime snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You turned and ran, your bare feet slapping against the cold stone as you disappeared down the corridor. Jaime watched you go, a strange mix of relief and frustration tightening in his chest.

“Stay alive, Stark,” he muttered under his breath, turning back to the fight.

The guards pressed forward, but Jaime’s resolve didn’t waver. He would buy you the time you needed, no matter the cost.

The clash of steel and the shouts of men echoed louder as you navigated the winding corridors of Harrenhal. The stone walls, cold and oppressive, seemed to press in on you as you ran, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Every step carried you closer to the courtyard, where the sounds of battle raged—a cacophony of chaos and defiance.

You rounded a corner and nearly collided with Brienne. She was bloodied but unbroken, her blade clutched tightly in her hand, her blue eyes blazing with determination.

“Lady Stark!” she exclaimed, relief flickering across her face.

“Brienne!” you gasped, your chest heaving. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Brienne’s gaze darted to the corridor behind you, where the faint sound of boots echoed ominously. “Where’s Jaime?”

You hesitated, your jaw tightening as you pushed away the flicker of concern gnawing at you. “He’s buying us time. Roose can’t kill him. Not without facing Tywin’s wrath.”

Brienne frowned, her grip tightening on her sword. “And you trust him to hold them off?”

“I trust him to survive,” you replied sharply, though the admission left a bitter taste in your mouth. “But we can’t stay here. He told me to find you and get to the courtyard.”

Brienne nodded, her focus shifting. “Then we’ll need horses. Follow me.”

The courtyard was chaos. Bodies littered the uneven stones, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of blood and sweat. Roose’s men were scattered, their movements disorganized as they tried to contain the skirmish. Brienne led the way, her massive frame cutting through the crowd like a force of nature. You stayed close behind, your heart pounding as you scanned the chaos for any sign of Jaime—or the horses.

“There,” Brienne said, pointing toward the stables. A small group of horses stood tethered near the gate, their eyes wide with fear, their hooves stamping against the ground.

But between you and the horses were several of Roose’s men, their weapons drawn as they moved to intercept you.

“Lady Stark,” one of them barked, his voice strained but commanding. “Stop this madness and return to the keep!”

You glared at him, your fists clenching. “You think Roose will let you lay a hand on me?” you snapped, your voice cutting through the noise. “He needs me alive and untouched. Or do you want to explain to him why his prize is damaged?”

The man hesitated, his grip on his sword faltering as he glanced at his comrades. They exchanged uneasy looks, their resolve wavering.

Brienne took advantage of their hesitation, stepping forward with her sword raised. “If you won’t stand aside, I’ll carve a path through you,” she growled, her voice low and deadly.

The men flinched, their fear palpable. They weren’t cowards, but the weight of their orders—and the presence of a Stark—stayed their hands.

“Move,” you demanded, your tone icy.

They parted reluctantly, their faces grim as they allowed you to pass.

Brienne untethered two horses swiftly, her movements efficient despite the chaos surrounding you. She helped you mount the first one, her grip firm as she steadied the skittish animal.

“Ride hard and don’t stop,” she said, her voice urgent.

“What about you?” you asked, your eyes narrowing.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Brienne replied, swinging herself onto the second horse with practiced ease.

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your gaze flicking back toward the keep. The thought of leaving Jaime behind gnawed at you, much to your irritation. He could handle himself, you told yourself. Roose wouldn’t dare kill him—Tywin’s wrath would be too great.

But the image of him standing alone against Roose’s men, his smirk hiding the pain you knew he felt, refused to leave your mind.

“Lady Stark!” Brienne’s sharp voice jolted you back to reality. “Go!”

You dug your heels into the horse’s sides, and it bolted forward, its hooves pounding against the stone as you raced toward the open gate. Brienne followed close behind, her sword raised as she deflected a half-hearted attempt to stop her.

Shouts erupted as Roose’s men realized what was happening, but none dared fire an arrow or strike a blow. The fear of Roose’s wrath—and the consequences of harming you—stayed their hands.

As you passed through the gates and into the open fields beyond, a wave of relief washed over you. The wind whipped through your hair, the cold air biting at your skin, but you didn’t stop.

“Keep going!” Brienne shouted from behind you, her voice cutting through the roar of blood in your ears.

You urged the horse onward, your thoughts a whirlwind of anger, fear, and frustration. You couldn’t shake the image of Jaime from your mind, his half-smirk and sharp tongue hiding the torment beneath.

Damn him, you thought bitterly. Damn him for making me care.

But even as you cursed him, you couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that burned in your chest. He was still alive. He had to be.

And if you had anything to say about it, you wouldn’t let Roose Bolton have the last word.

Jaime stood in the center of the room, his posture deliberately casual despite the two guards gripping his arms tightly. His body ached from the scuffle in the courtyard, and the dull throb of his maimed arm reminded him of just how precarious his situation was.

Roose Bolton sat behind a plain wooden table, his pale, cold eyes fixed on Jaime with an intensity that could freeze blood. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, as Roose tapped a single finger against the tabletop.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but laced with venom. “Do you know what you’ve done, Kingslayer?”

Jaime smirked faintly, though it lacked his usual bravado. “I’d like to think I’ve done a great many things, my lord. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Roose’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze narrowing. “The Stark girl,” he said quietly, the words carrying more weight than the volume suggested. “She’s gone. Escaped. Along with your… friend, the wench.”

Jaime feigned a look of surprise, his smirk deepening. “Really? Well, good for them. I hear the Riverlands are lovely this time of year.”

The guards tightened their grip on him, but Jaime didn’t flinch.

“Don’t play games with me,” Roose snapped, his calm demeanor cracking for the first time. “You knew. You helped them, didn’t you?”

Jaime tilted his head, his smirk fading into something colder. “What if I did?” he asked, his voice low and steady. “Would you flay me here and now? Because I’d do it again, Bolton. A hundred times over.”

The room fell deathly silent. Roose leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable—anger, perhaps, or calculation.

“You’re pathetic,” Roose said finally, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’ve risked everything for what? A Stark girl who despises you? A knight who would sooner gut you than thank you? Do you think this makes you noble? Redeemed?”

Jaime met his gaze evenly, his jaw tightening. “I think,” he said slowly, “that it makes me something more than you’ll ever be.”

The room grew colder as Roose’s expression hardened. He rose slowly from his chair, his movements deliberate as he stepped closer to Jaime.

“You’ve cost me dearly,” Roose said, his voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “The Stark girl was to be my bride. Her name would have solidified my hold in the North, ensured stability in a time of chaos. And now, thanks to you, that is no longer possible.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Tragic,” he said dryly.

Roose’s hand twitched, his fingers curling briefly into a fist before he stepped back. “I should flay you alive,” he said coldly. “Peel your skin from your flesh and hang you from the gates of Harrenhal as a warning to any fool who dares cross me.”

The guards stiffened, their grips tightening on Jaime’s arms.

“But,” Roose continued, his voice regaining its unsettling calm, “you’re worth more to me alive than dead. For now.”

He turned abruptly, gesturing to the guards. “Escort him to the capital at once,” he ordered, his tone brisk. “I want him out of my sight before I change my mind.”

As the guards moved to drag Jaime toward the door, Roose called out one final time. “And deliver a message to your father.”

Jaime stopped, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow. “A message?”

Roose’s eyes gleamed with cold amusement. “Tell him that our deal regarding the Twins is off. The loss of my bride—your doing—means I owe him nothing.”

Jaime’s stomach sank, though he kept his face impassive. The significance of Roose’s words was not lost on him. Tywin had brokered a delicate alliance with House Frey, and Roose had been a critical part of that arrangement. If Roose withdrew his support, it could unravel everything.

“Anything else?” Jaime asked, his smirk returning faintly despite the tension in the room.

Roose’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. “Only that I hope you enjoy what’s left of your journey, Kingslayer. I suspect it will be… enlightening.”

The guards hauled Jaime away, their boots echoing against the stone as they dragged him through the corridor. Despite the looming consequences of Roose’s words, Jaime felt a faint flicker of satisfaction.

He had done what he set out to do.

You were free.

And Jaime Lannister felt as though he had won.

[thebroccolination]

THE DIRECTORS OF “THAMEPO” AND “BE MY FAVORITE”

After “ThamePo” ended, I was perusing the Instagram stories of the cast, and I decided to check out the director’s page too since “ThamePo” was her baby that she apparently held onto for five years (!) until she had the right cast to do it justice, and I have an enormous amount of respect for her.

And look who she posted about:

Waa, the other director I have an immense amount of respect for! And I immediately thought, “Ohhhh, these two having mutual respect for each other makes sense.”

I don’t want to trust auto-translate but I think the gist of her caption is that she always knew he’d do great things, and she’s proud of the work he did on a certain movie called “Love You to Debt.”

Which is the movie that Thame and Po can’t get around to finishing because they have to make out instead.

But y’know what she also included in “ThamePo” that’s directed by Waa?

“Good Old Days”! The series Thame and Po watch that first time they spend all night talking on the phone.

It’s fairly common for GMMTV series to sneak snippets of other series into the narrative, but I love that Mui chose two of Waa’s to feature.

It gave me a little spark of joy to see this overlap of directors, because of all the Thai series I’ve seen, I think “ThamePo” and “Be My Favorite” are the all-rounder best in overall quality thanks in large part to the dedication of their directors who also worked on the scripts. And in both instances, they truly brought the best out of their actors.

Mui knew Est was the lead she was waiting for, and Waa wanted to work with Krist again after working with him on “Good Old Days.” As protagonists, Est and Krist brought a lot of pathos to Po and Kawi, and both roles asked a lot of them in different ways. Po’s character grows in such a quiet way that Est didn’t have a ton of emotional range to work with, so he really had to knuckle down and find small ways to show it. Meanwhile Kawi runs the gamut of extremes and it took an enormous amount of physical energy from Krist to convey it all. Mui had to make sure Po was still visually interesting, and Waa had to keep all of Kawi’s extremes balanced so he still came across as realistic.

But Waa and Mui also knew how to get the best performance from their less experienced actors, too.

“Be My Favorite” was Gawin’s first lead performance after a slew of side characters and cameos. He was cast as Pisaeng after 1) Singto turned down the role to go freelance and 2) Mike left the production, but Gawin really made that role his. In behind the scenes interviews, Gawin said that Waa both expected and asked a lot from him, and his acting saw sharp improvement as a result. Gawin was always good at playing outwardly sassy characters, but Waa helped him prioritize portraying Pisaeng’s interiority. Pisaeng has that same sass Gawin is known for portraying, but there’s also got a lot going on that Pisaeng can’t and won’t express in words or actions, and that was a real challenge Gawin pulled off beautifully under Waa’s meticulous direction.

Meanwhile, “ThamePo” is William’s first series ever and bro, what a powerhouse this kid is already. But a lot of what makes his performance really shine are the guidance given and choices made by Mui. His unbroken soft-spoken delivery as Thame, the long holds on his face to give him space to emote, etc. I think it was a genius decision to have Thame never raise his voice in anger or fear or anything, not even once, and that definitely came from the director. Having Thame express his strongest emotions quietly made a profound impact and gave real nuance to his character.

When I heard that Mui had been holding onto this script for years because she hadn’t found the right fit yet, it immediately made me think of “Be My Favorite.” In a podcast interview in 2023, Waa said he told GMMTV at some point early on that he needed more time to work on the script for “Be My Favorite,” that he wanted all the major characters to have their own separate arcs, and that he didn’t care how much the fans complained about the wait, because he wasn’t doing it for them. “Be My Favorite” became his favorite child of all his productions even though he knew before it aired that it wasn’t going to be a massive hit for him in large part because of ~fandom politics~ (the atypical casting meant both sets of fandoms loudly planned to boycott it—and did). His only concern was making a series he was proud of, and in the long run, the pettiness of the fandoms won’t be remembered, but the quality of the series will.

Directors like Mui and Waa are the kinds of champions I always hope for with queer series. Because of course they want people to watch their work, but they’re creators before they’re anything else, and you can see their passion and devotion to craft in every frame of their work.

Sometimes a series is just a vessel to launch an actor to popularity so they can sell things and make money for the company who signed them.

Sometimes—if you have the right people—it’s art.

[jmkjournalblog]

Sweet thing (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3000+

Warnings: Manipulation, a lot of talking, sex.

A/n: The narrative can be choppy, I had to rewrite a couple of moments, sorry. English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes.

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting soft, golden hues across the bedroom. Y/N stirred, her eyes fluttering open to a world that no longer required the timid facade she had so carefully maintained. Beside her, Agatha’s arm rested lightly over her waist, a tangible reminder of the game Y/N had played—and won. The bait was taken; now it was time to revel in the shift.

With a languid stretch, Y/N slid out from under Agatha’s arm, careful not to wake her. She tied the robe around her waist, its loose fabric falling just enough to hint at the body beneath without revealing too much. Her movements were deliberate, fluid, every step a quiet testament to the confidence she no longer bothered to hide. Her bare feet padded across the floor as she made her way to the kitchen.

In the serene quiet of the morning, Y/N moved with an elegance that bordered on the predatory. Her fingers grazed the countertop as she prepared coffee, the faint clink of mugs and the gurgling of the pot the only sounds in the still house. A satisfied smile curved her lips as she let her thoughts wander. Agatha’s growing attachment was palpable, her walls crumbling with every calculated move. Y/N could feel it—the pull, the inevitability of the older woman’s surrender.

The faint shuffle of footsteps broke the stillness, and Y/N glanced over her shoulder just as Agatha appeared in the doorway. The older woman’s hair was slightly mussed, her expression drowsy but soft with the lingering haze of sleep. “What’s she up to now ?” Agatha muttered, her voice low and teasing.

The sight before her made Agatha falter.

Y/N stood by the counter, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. The robe hung loosely around her frame, hinting at her curves but offering nothing overt. Her posture was confident, her weight shifted just enough to highlight the subtle lines of her body. But it was her smile—easy, knowing, and utterly self-assured—that stopped Agatha in her tracks.

“Good morning,” Y/N said, her voice rich and warm, her tone carrying a trace of playfulness. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes meeting Agatha’s with unflinching ease.

Agatha blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Y-Y/N?” she stammered, her usual sharpness dulled by confusion.

Y/N’s smile widened, and she set the mug down with a soft clink. “You seem surprised,” she said, her voice carrying a lightness that was almost amused.

Agatha leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms as she studied the young woman before her. “You’re not acting like the girl I knew.”

“No,” Y/N admitted easily, her head tilting slightly. “That girl was... convenient. You seemed to like her, though.”

“Convenient?” Agatha echoed, her brows furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/N stepped closer, her movements slow but not calculated—there was no need to force what was already unfolding. “It means,” she said, her voice dipping slightly, “that I’m done pretending.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened, her sharp gaze fixed on Y/N’s every move. The young woman radiated an energy Agatha hadn’t felt in centuries—a subtle but unmistakable authority that demanded attention. Despite herself, Agatha couldn’t resist pressing further. “If you’re done pretending,” she said, crossing her arms, “then what is it you’re really after?”

Y/N’s smug smile softened just enough to hint at something darker beneath. “I’m here to set things right,” she said, her voice calm but firm. She turned slightly, her emerald-green aura shimmering faintly as if drawn out by her own words. “There’s a balance to this world, Agatha, one that’s been shattered.”

Agatha’s brows furrowed, unease crawling up her spine. “Balance?” she echoed, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. “What are you talking about?”

Y/N turned back to her, her movements slow and deliberate. “Wanda’s little miracle,” she said softly, almost mockingly. “Her boys. They don’t belong here.”

Agatha’s lips thinned, but not from concern for the twins. Her sharp mind was already leaping ahead, calculating the potential damage Y/N’s meddling could do to her plans. “And what do you intend to do about it?” she asked, her tone edged with suspicion.

“They were made from chaos itself,” Y/N continued, ignoring the question. Her voice was steady and unyielding, carrying the weight of an absolute truth. “Magic like that doesn’t create life without consequences. They’re a tear in the fabric of what’s natural, and I’m here to fix it.”

Agatha crossed her arms, her expression hardening. “Fix it? You mean ruin everything I’ve been building.”

Y/N arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, Agatha,” she said, her tone laced with condescension. “This isn’t about your petty little schemes.”

“Petty?” Agatha snapped, bristling. “Do you have any idea how much work it’s taken to get this close to Wanda? To even begin unraveling her power?”

“I do,” Y/N replied smoothly, her smirk widening. “And that’s why I’m giving you this chance to rethink things.”

Agatha took a step forward, her frustration flaring into anger. “I don’t care about the twins, but if you throw off the delicate balance I’ve created here, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Y/N cut in sharply, her voice suddenly cold. The emerald aura around her flared brighter, crackling with an otherworldly energy. “Do you really think you can stop me, Agatha?”

The room seemed to grow colder, the air charged with a heavy, oppressive weight. Y/N’s expression shifted, the teasing edge fading as her gaze bore into Agatha with a terrifying intensity. “Do you even know who I am?”

Agatha faltered, her words catching in her throat. “Who are you?” she managed, her voice quieter than she intended.

Y/N stepped closer, her presence overwhelming as her aura expanded to fill the space between them. “I’m the natural order of all things,” she said, her voice low and resonant, carrying a weight that seemed to press down on Agatha’s chest. “The one who ensures the balance remains intact. I am Death.”

The declaration hung in the air, heavy and final, as though the room itself recognized the truth of her words. Agatha’s heart pounded, her instincts screaming at her to retreat, to run. But she stood her ground, her sharp mind struggling to reconcile the confident young woman before her with the cosmic force she claimed to be.

“You’re not just here for the twins,” Agatha said slowly, her voice tight. “You’re here to take control.”

“I’m here,” Y/N replied, her tone softening but losing none of its authority, “because chaos has disrupted the natural order. Wanda, her children, this town—it’s all a festering wound in the fabric of existence. And I’m the cure.”

Agatha’s mind raced. She didn’t care about the twins or their so-called place in the universe. What mattered was preserving her own plans, ensuring Wanda’s power remained within reach. But confronting Death itself? That was a gamble even she wasn’t sure she could win.

“And where do I fit into all this?” Agatha asked carefully, masking her growing unease with a veneer of calm.

Y/N’s smirk returned, wicked and knowing. “Oh, Agatha,” she purred, her voice dripping with amusement. “You’re clever enough to figure that out. You’ve spent lifetimes clawing at the edges of power, chasing the Darkhold’s secrets. I can give you what you’ve been searching for—if you’re willing to play along.”

Agatha stiffened. “And what do you want in return?”

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear as she whispered, “To play, Mommy. To feel your clever little mind unravel under my hands.” Her voice was a velvet caress, each word heavy with suggestion. “And maybe, if you behave, I’ll give you what you want.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her pulse quickening as Y/N pulled back, her gaze steady and unrelenting. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, the truth of what stood before her too monumental to ignore.

“You’re insane,” Agatha said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe,” Y/N replied, stepping back with a grin. Her emerald aura shimmered faintly around her, crackling like distant thunder. “But I always win, Agatha. And you? You’ve never been one to turn down a winning hand.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened as she watched Y/N return to her coffee, the younger woman’s smug confidence filling the room like a storm cloud. The word Death echoed in Agatha’s mind, and despite her centuries of experience, a sliver of doubt crept in. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—but an acute awareness that she was no longer the apex predator in the room.

She took a deep breath, forcing her mask of calm back into place. “If you’re so powerful,” Agatha said, her voice sharp as a blade, “why do you need me at all? You could snap your fingers and undo Wanda’s magic, take the twins, and be done with it.”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “True,” she admitted. “But where’s the fun in that?” She turned fully, her robe shifting just enough to hint at the body beneath. “Besides, you’re useful to me, Agatha. For now.”

“Useful,” Agatha repeated, her tone flat. “How flattering.”

Y/N’s smirk deepened, and she stepped closer again, her presence almost suffocating in its intensity. “You’ve been circling Wanda like a vulture, waiting for the right moment to pounce. All that cunning, all that patience—wasted, if I sweep in and take what I need without a second thought. But if you help me...”

“What?” Agatha snapped, her frustration bubbling over. “You’ll leave me with the scraps?”

Y/N chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver through Agatha. “Oh, no,” she said, her voice a velvet caress. “I’ll make sure you get what you deserve.”

“And what do you think I deserve?” Agatha demanded, though part of her wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

Y/N leaned in, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “Everything you’ve ever wanted,” she whispered. “Power. Knowledge. Freedom from the chains you’ve worn for centuries.” Her voice dropped, her tone both teasing and commanding. “All you have to do is trust me.”

Agatha stared at her, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Trust wasn’t something she gave freely—if at all—but Y/N’s words struck at the core of her deepest desires. The Darkhold. Wanda’s magic. The chance to finally ascend beyond the limits that had bound her for so long.

“What’s the catch?” Agatha asked, her voice low.

“No catch,” Y/N replied, though her smirk betrayed her. “Just an understanding. You don’t get in my way, and I won’t destroy everything you’ve worked for.”

Agatha’s lips pressed into a thin line. It was a dangerous proposition, but then again, danger was her element. She tilted her chin up, meeting Y/N’s gaze with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t think for a second that I trust you.”

Y/N’s grin widened, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “Oh, Agatha,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “That’s half the fun.”

Before Agatha could respond, Y/N stepped back, her demeanor shifting effortlessly into something lighter, more playful. “Now,” she said, picking up her coffee cup again, “shall we get started? There’s so much to do, and I hate wasting time.”

The dynamic between Y/N and Agatha shifted entirely after that morning. Agatha found herself caught between two versions of Y/N: the one who revealed herself as Death, with power and purpose that eclipsed anything Agatha had ever encountered, and the timid, naive girl that still charmed the other residents of Westview.

Y/N had resumed her sweet, bashful act effortlessly. Around Wanda and the neighbors, she giggled, stammered, and fumbled her way through conversations, her green eyes wide with innocence. She still burned cookies in the oven, still blushed furiously when Wanda teased her about her “crush” on Agnes. No one suspected a thing.

But when they were alone, that mask fell away, and Agatha was left grappling with the reality of who Y/N truly was—and what she wanted.

*****************

The door to Agatha’s home slammed shut, and she leaned against it, sighing heavily. It had been exhausting day of keeping up appearances, pretending to be Wanda’s nosy neighbor while Y/N floated around like a living contradiction.

She heard humming from the kitchen and followed the sound, finding Y/N there, stirring something on the stove. She was barefoot, wearing a flowy dress that made her look every bit the innocent girl-next-door. The sight was disarming, but Agatha knew better now.

“Rough day, Mommy?” Y/N asked without turning around, her voice teasing but soft enough to sound harmless.

Agatha groaned, rubbing her temples. “I told you not to call me that.”

Y/N turned, a wooden spoon in hand, her expression mockingly contrite. “Oh, but you liked it last night,” she said, her lips curling into a wicked smile.

Before she could respond, the doorbell rang, breaking the tension.

Y/N turned back to the stove, her naive persona snapping back into place like a mask. “I’ll get it!” she chirped, practically skipping to the door.

Agatha watched, stunned, as Y/N greeted Wanda with her usual wide-eyed enthusiasm, her voice bright and bubbly as they exchanged pleasantries….

A barbecue party. The invitation had come with Wanda’s usual saccharine smile and a firm insistence that Agnes and her adorable little “crush” Y/N come as a pair.

“Oh, we’ll be there,” Y/N had chirped in her shy, bubbly voice, glancing at Agatha with a bashful smile that made Wanda practically squeal with delight.

Now, hours later, Agatha found herself reluctantly walking with Y/N toward Wanda’s backyard. The older woman’s sharp eyes swept over the scene, her instincts humming with unease despite the cheerful decorations and the smell of grilling meat.

“You look tense,” Y/N teased, her voice light and playful as she looped her arm through Agatha’s. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous about a little barbecue?”

Agatha shot her a sideways glance. “I don’t trust this whole Stepford act,” she muttered.

Y/N giggled, leaning in closer. “Relax, Mommy,” she whispered, her tone low and teasing. “I’ve got everything under control.”

The word made Agatha’s breath catch, and she turned to glare at Y/N. “I told you not to—”

“There you are!” Wanda exclaimed, her face lighting up as she spotted them. She rushed over, her enthusiasm almost suffocating. “Y/N, you look adorable! It’s so good to see you both!”

Y/N giggled softly, blushing as Wanda’s gaze lingered on her. “Thank you, Wanda,” she said, her voice as timid as a schoolgirl’s.

Agatha forced a smile, though her sharp eyes darted around the yard, cataloging every detail. She could feel Y/N’s aura humming beside her, faint but present—a reminder that this charade was only skin-deep.

As the barbecue unfolded, Y/N flitted around the party with practiced ease. She dropped plates, fumbled cups, and stammered her way through conversations, drawing fond chuckles and indulgent smiles from everyone she encountered. Wanda, in particular, seemed delighted by her presence, frequently glancing her way with a motherly sort of pride.

Agatha, meanwhile, lingered near the edges of the gathering, her mind too preoccupied to fully engage. She sipped her drink, her thoughts churning with half-formed plans and contingencies. But her composure slipped when Y/N sidled up beside her, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“You’re tense,” Y/N murmured, her voice low enough that only Agatha could hear. “What’s the matter? Afraid someone will see through me?”

“Someone might see through you,” Agatha hissed, her irritation bubbling to the surface. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N.”

Y/N’s smile turned wicked, and she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear. “Speaking of games,” she whispered, her voice dripping with mischief, “I’m not wearing any panties.”

Agatha froze mid-sip, her body going rigid as the words sank in. She turned to glare at Y/N, her voice a sharp whisper. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” Y/N replied, her tone unbearably smug. She stepped back, her innocent mask snapping back into place as she waved to Wanda, leaving Agatha simmering in a cocktail of frustration and desire.

As the evening wound down, Agatha made an excuse to slip inside Wanda’s house, claiming she needed to “grab something she left behind.” She headed to the basement, her mind distracted as she searched for the pretense of her visit.

The door creaked shut behind her, and Agatha turned, her breath catching as she found Y/N standing there, the smug smile from earlier now fully in place.

“What are you doing here?” Agatha demanded, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

Y/N stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, her green aura faintly flickering as she closed the distance between them. “I was curious,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “You seemed so tense earlier. I thought I’d come see if I could help.”

“Y/N,” Agatha warned, her tone faltering as Y/N moved closer, her presence overwhelming in the confined space.

Before Agatha could react, Y/N pressed her back against the wall, her hands braced on either side of Agatha’s shoulders. The younger woman’s eyes gleamed with a mix of mischief and hunger as she leaned in, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear.

“You’ve been trying so hard to keep up with me,” Y/N murmured, her voice a sultry purr. “But let’s be honest, Mommy—you’re out of your depth.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, her hands curling into fists as she struggled to maintain control. “Y/N,” she said again, her voice shaking slightly.

Y/N smirked, her fingers trailing down Agatha’s arm before sliding to her waist. “Shh,” she whispered, her lips grazing the corner of Agatha’s jaw. “You’ll enjoy this. Trust me.”

Before Agatha could protest, Y/N dropped to her knees, her hands moving with practiced ease as she tugged Agatha’s slacks down just enough to expose her. The older woman gasped, her hands flying to the wall for support as Y/N’s lips pressed against her inner thigh, teasing, deliberate, and maddeningly slow.

“Y/N, what are you—”

“Shh,” Y/N murmured again, her lips curving into a smug smile as she glanced up. “Don’t fight it. You’ve wanted this as much as I have.”

Her mouth moved with precision, her tongue tracing patterns that made Agatha’s legs tremble. The sound of her own sharp breaths and quiet moans filled the room, the tension of the day melting away under Y/N’s skillful attention.

Agatha’s breath came in sharp gasps, her fingers gripping the edge of the wall behind her, her composure unraveling with every flick of Y/N’s tongue and every warm kiss placed with precision.

Agatha had faced witches, wizards, and powers that could tear the world apart, but nothing had prepared her for Y/N—her control, her deliberate mix of dominance and tenderness. It was intoxicating, and she couldn’t hold back the quiet, desperate moan that spilled from her lips as Y/N moved with purpose, guiding her toward the edge of ecstasy.

“Y/N,” Agatha managed, her voice shaking. “I—”

“Shh,” Y/N murmured, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Agatha’s thigh. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

The words sent a shiver through Agatha, and with one last, deliberate motion, Y/N tipped her over the edge. Agatha’s body tensed, her breath catching as waves of pleasure washed over her, her cries muffled by her hand flying to her mouth.

Y/N didn’t stop until Agatha’s trembling subsided, her hands gentle as they smoothed over the older woman’s thighs, grounding her. She stood slowly, her hands reaching to help Agatha adjust her slacks, buttoning them with a playful smirk. “There,” she said softly, her tone teasing but oddly tender. “All put back together.”

Agatha was still catching her breath, leaning heavily against the wall as she watched Y/N with a mix of awe and frustration. But before she could say anything, Y/N took her wrist, guiding her hand to the hem of her dress.

“What are you—” Agatha began, but Y/N cut her off with a wicked grin.

“You’ve been so focused on me,” Y/N purred, sliding Agatha’s hand higher, beneath the fabric of her dress, until her fingers brushed against the slick heat. “You didn’t even notice how much I enjoyed myself.”

Agatha’s eyes widened, her fingers instinctively pressing against the wetness between Y/N’s thighs. “Gods,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear as she whispered, “See what you do to me?”

Agatha’s breath hitched, and she opened her mouth to respond, but the sound of the door creaking open made them both freeze.

“Agnes?” came Wanda’s voice, bright and curious. “Are you down here?”

Agatha yanked her hand back, her face a mixture of guilt and panic as she straightened her clothes. Y/N, however, remained utterly calm, her smirk never faltering as she stepped away from Agatha, her hands smoothing her dress.

“Coming!” Y/N called out cheerfully, her voice sweet and innocent as if nothing had happened. She shot Agatha a playful wink before heading toward the door, leaving the older woman to scramble for composure.

As Wanda appeared at the top of the stairs, Y/N met her with an easy smile, her eyes bright and carefree. “Sorry, Wanda! I dragged Agnes down here to help me find something, but I think I just got her distracted.”

Wanda laughed, oblivious to the tension still thick in the air. “Oh, Agnes, you’re always getting into trouble,” she teased, shaking her head.

[monsterfuckerconfessions]

I'm sad and kind of frustrated that my preferred flavour of monsterfuckery seems to be out of vogue and much harder to find these days. I see lots of pushback defending monsterfucking along the lines of "recognizing the good and normal in monsters / loving the things that society says are monsters / envisioning monsters as things that will treat us gently and respectfully / seeing ourselves (marginalized groups) as monsters that are still good and loving" and I just... Good for you, I guess; do your thing. I see the rationale and the sociological/psychological reasoning. But it's not for me, and some days I feel like I'm in my own personal hell when all the new monsterfucking I can find is consensual and sweet.

The appeal of a monster, to me, is the danger. The fear. The lack of consent. The violence and pain along with the pleasure. If we want to get psychological, it's a fantasy about guilt-free sex— a story in which the victim has no power and therefore no responsibility to stop the sex, or to seek it in an appropriate way; in which the victim doesn't even have to work for their orgasm because (I imagine) even pleasure is being forced on them.

It's a rape fantasy with extra tasty set dressing, and I'm tired of defending that fantasy even to other monsterfuckers. I recognize that what I want is original flavour un-deconstructed monstrosity, and other people are writing against that narrative for their own reasons. I just wish the stuff I liked was easier to find these days.

Give me big clawed hands that take without asking, and thick knotted bumpy cocks that force orgasm after orgasm, and sharp teeth bared in a grin of delight at the sound of screaming and crying and begging for it to stop. Give me unwanted infections and forced transformations that turn the body into a sexual horror. Give me beasts that hunger and threaten and ravage.

Give me monsters that are monstrous.

.

[angelinthefire]

The thing with meljayvik is. Jayce really does love both Mel and Viktor.

Like the way he admires Mel and believes in her, the way he trusts her and turns to her for comfort (the way he apologizes immediately after their one fight). Mel has a very solid claim on his heart.

And obviously Viktor. They save each other's lives, their love saves the world, etc. Big cosmic love story.

The show repeatedly draws visual parallels between Mel and Viktor, but that's the thing, they're parallels -- they occupy a similar space in Jayce's mind and heart.

And they're not *really* in competition with each other either. Of course science and politics compete for Jayce's attention, principle and pragmatism, and Viktor and Mel represent those things on a grand narrative scale. But when Viktor is dying Jayce doesn't abandon Mel for him, he goes to her for companionship and comfort. And she doesn't keep Jayce to herself, she tells Jayce that the best thing he can do is spend time with Viktor. When Jayce *does* choose science over politics at the start of season 2, that doesn't change the relationship he has with Mel, they still have this very close and sweet partnership. And in the end, Jayce "dies"(?) alongside Viktor, but he never stopped loving Mel.

I don't have a source for this so take it with a grain of salt, but I saw someone say that in early drafts of the show the Mel-Jayce-Viktor relationship was a very kind of typical angel-and-devil-on-Jayce's-shoulders, which-one-is-he-going-to-choose type of thing. And there’s definite elements of that in the story. But you can also see how much the show ended up subverting that trope and giving the characters so much more depth. It's not Mel who ends up changing Jayce, he ends up bringing out a softer side in her, and rather than forcing him to reject his idealism she ends up trying to defend it ("I won't let them corrupt your dream"). It's not just that Jayce starts spending less time with Viktor (while using his political position to keep Heimerdinger from destroying the thing that might save Viktor), it's that Viktor also starts shutting himself off from Jayce as well.

What sparked this post is that I like a lot of jayvik fanart, but whenever I see fanart that builds out a broader story and world around them, I'm always like, okay but where's Mel? Or when I see a jayvik post that talks about Viktor as Jayce's one true love, it's like... nah that doesn't ring true.

Like Jayce's characterization genuinely falls apart if he's not also in love with Mel, imo. Him looking at Mel with heart-eyes, and telling her "you were always right" and "you will never be a passenger", and finally being able to relax when he rests his head in her lap, are all really important things about him. He gets into this thing with this sexy femme fatale, that's full of political intrigue, and then he’s like, I'm going to fall in love with her. And not only that, I'm going to assume that she's in this for love as well, that under her sharp exterior she's as soft and caring as I am. And then she is! And that's SUCH an important part of who Jayce is.

Because that's his approach to Viktor too. In the end, that's what it comes down to. Viktor had all this shit going on, and Jayce is like, okay, I'm just going to love you. And it works!

Jayce isn't someone who picks and chooses who he loves. For both Mel and Viktor, he loves and trusts them, and when he shows them that, it brings out the best side of them. For all of Jayce's weaknesses, that's his great redeeming quality, that he loves so genuinely, and making him choose between Mel and Viktor ruins that.

So yeah. While it's possible to just focus in on jayvik or meljay for particular purposes, I think if you zoom out and think big picture, meljayvik is the only way to go.

[bennyboyfics]

Can we get anything mkre with diva reader?maybe bens fangirls criticise her for never looking happy or something but he doesn't care about the fake outrage cause loves her and knows she's a diva

Always been that girl || Ben Shelton x gf!reader

A/n: love diva!reader

Wc: 1,037

Warnings: none really

MASTERLIST

-

The internet had been loud lately—louder than usual. Your face, clipped from grainy screenshots during Ben’s most recent match, had gone viral. You weren’t smiling. You rarely did at tournaments. Instead, you sat poised, unreadable, expensive sunglasses masking your eyes, lips set in a neutral line, legs crossed in that elegant way that made people whisper about you even when they didn’t know your name.

To them, you were that girlfriend. Too cold. Too pretty. Too composed. Too… unbothered. The narrative came crashing in fast—“snob,” “barely claps when he wins a point,” “doesn’t deserve him,” “never smiles.” As if your face, your posture, your taste in fashion somehow equated to how much you loved Ben.

The worst part? You’d seen it all before. After every win. Every loss. Every tournament you attended. It was always some variation of the same thing: why didn’t you look happier? And every time, you brushed it off. You didn’t have the energy to perform for strangers online.

You were proud of your boyfriend—immensely —but that didn’t mean you had to fake tears or jump up and down like a teenager. That just wasn’t you. But this time, the outrage caught traction. A few sports media accounts picked it up. Then a popular tennis podcast threw shade.

Headlines like: “Ben Shelton’s Girlfriend Looks Miserable Court-side – Fans Question Her Support” “Is Shelton’s Icy Muse Helping or Hurting?”

You didn’t say anything. But Ben noticed. Of course he did. It started in the car on the way back from the match—the way he glanced over at you, fingers twitching on the gearshift, jaw tight with something unspoken. “What?” you asked, looking over at him. He didn’t answer at first. m

Just ran his tongue across the inside of his cheek, then gave you a sideways glance. “They’re running their mouths again.” You gave a light shrug. “Let them.” “I don’t get it. Why do people think you need to smile like a pageant girl just to prove you love me?” You turned toward the window, your voice casual.

“Because I don’t fit the idea they’ve built of who a ‘supportive girlfriend’ should be.” Ben shook his head slowly, his knuckles tightening on the wheel until they turned white. “It pisses me off.” You turned your head toward him, gently laying your hand over his where it rested against your inner thigh. Your voice was soft but certain.

“It doesn’t bother me anymore.” Ben’s voice came low and firm. “It bothers me.”

-

Ben had just won a gruelling three-set match. His curls were damp with sweat, his cheeks still flushed with adrenaline. He smiled as he sat down at the mic, relaxed and glowing. The usual questions started pouring in—match stats, strategy, his growing confidence on tour. Then someone asked, carefully worded but sharp underneath:

“Theres been a lot of attention on your girlfriend lately. Some people online have questioned her lack of visible enthusiasm courtside. Do you feel like that’s impacted the way people see you or your brand?” Ben blinked, once. Slowly. The smile vanished.

Then he leaned into the mic, that familiar half-grin twitching at the corner of his mouth—the one he wore when he was about to say something very real. “You know,” he started, eyes scanning the room, “I’ve seen the comments. Everyone has.” A pause. “But the thing is, I don’t date her so she can sit courtside and clap like a seal.”

That caused a few ripples of laughter. “I date her because she’s her. She’s smart. She’s driven. She’s got more style and confidence than anyone I’ve ever met. And yeah—she doesn’t jump up and down every time I win a point. You know why? Because she respects the game. Because she knows I don’t need a cheerleader—I need her.”

The room went quiet. Cameras clicked. Ben leaned back in his chair but didn’t stop. “She flies out to matches, sits for hours—sometimes in the sun, sometimes in packed stadiums, all for me. And she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t ask for attention. Doesn’t post selfies from my box for clout. She just shows up every time.”

His tone was calm, but there was a steely edge to it now. “So no, I really don’t care what people say. And neither does she. We know what we are. She’s proud of me, and I know it.” He nodded once, then gave a pointed look to the journalist.

“And for the record? She smiled when I won. Just not for the cameras.”

-

You were lying on your stomach on the bed, phone lighting up every few seconds from a new tweet, clip, or mention. The clip of Ben’s interview had gone viral. People were retracting their comments. The quote tweets had changed:“Ok wait… I get it now.” “The fact that she just sits there looking stunning and doesn’t move… queen behaviour.” “Ben defending his girl like that? Whew.” “I want what they have.”

You looked up as the door opened. Ben tossed his bag down, walked over, and dropped a kiss to your shoulder as he sat beside you. “So,” he said. “Still don’t care?” You grinned, finally, the real kind. “Maybe I care a little now. You looked hot defending me.” He laughed, tugging you up into his lap. “Don’t let it go to your heads.”

“It already has,” you teased, looping your arms around his neck.

[treatmelikeasmut]

Redemption of the Herald

MASTER LIST

PAIRING: Viktor x GN!Reader|| Isekai/Modern!AU

CW: Light season 2 spoilers

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've had this floating around in my brain for a while. I finally starting writing it at 5:30 this morning. Reincarnation is an AU I go back to a lot, so it was only a matter of time before I wrote one.

LISTEN ALONG [YouTube]

~*~*~

There was silence as the final credits rolled on the last episode of Arcane. You both just stared at the screen. A digestion of information. A silent understanding. A reckoning and acceptance of reality.

“It is strange,” Viktor started, his voice startling you out of your stupor. “Watching your descent to madness from the outside like this. A truly humbling experience.”

“You said it was…different in the other universe,” you recalled.

Viktor leaned back against the wall. You both were sat on your bed, watching Arcane in a long marathon. He had finally got up the courage, and you were there to help him process the information. You’d already done a deep dive into the lore of League of Legends, trying to scrape together anything you could.

“Not as much as I thought.” He shook his head. “There are a few things, of course. And there are parts of my life you did not witness, for narrative sake. This is not the descent of the Herald, afterall. Then, of course, there is the fact that you graced my life. And this Viktor, he was not so fortunate.”

You met his eyes, which struck you everytime, a jolt straight through you like lightning. It was so strange to have him here, in your space. For him to be real. His long hair tied back, falling out of the bun. But his features were just as sharp. His stature long and lithe. Those unforgetable liquid eyes that just didn’t exist outside of stories. Yet were watching you now as the result of some twisted isekai.

“Here,” continued Viktor, “I do not have such terminal illness. Only the deformity of my leg, which I have long been accustomed to. - I am much the man I was in the first act of the first season. Before…”

Viktor turned his face from you, shoulders rigid. He’d been carrying a lot of guilt, that much he’d told you.

He drew in a deep breath. “I’m still not exactly all I would’ve liked to have been. But I am better than the fate that befell me - us. The one that brought you here to begin with.”

Viktor turned back to you then, reaching out his hand. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek. It was like he had to keep checking you were real just as often as you did with him. He’d hardly been able to stop touching you since the first moment you met.

Jayce had rearended you with Viktor in the car. The look in his eyes when he first saw you - there were no words for it. Viktor told you later he had to get back in the car because he started tearing up. He was so sure it was just coincedence that you looked the way you did. Until you exchanged information with Jayce, for insurance reasons (even if neither of them had any idea about how insurance worked at the time). When he saw your name, he knew without a doubt.

You had make a joke about how they looked like their Arcane counterparts. Neither of them had heard of it, which initally surprised you. Now it made perfect sense why they hadn’t. You never would’ve thought getting rearended would lead to the biggest plot twist of your life.

“Why do you think you remember but I don’t?” you asked. There had been a few inklings, tingles of memories - voices, smells, colors, sometimes faces. But a solid one had not yet come back. “Is there a way to bring the memories back?”

Viktor frowned. “I am not sure. - Do you truly wish them back? They are not all good, especially toward the end. I was not the same man you fell in love with, and very different then the one that sits before you now.”

“You and I - we had a life together. There must be a reason I look the same, why we were brought back, why you found me.”

You wanted so desperately to remember. Viktor carried the memories like a burden. Like a scarlet letter. You found it so unfair that nothing had wriggled out yet. Your memories were just far away dreams, forgotten on the edge of sleep. You wanted to remember everything - the good, the bad, and the ugly. To know who you used to be.

“Perhaps it is so we may have another chance. No magic aside from the scarce remnants I carry. No hextech.” Viktor paused, staring out the window. “This world is different than ours was. There is no Zaun, no Piltover. No shimmer, though there are a great many substances just as harmful. I have learned the lesson that road leads to. At the very least, it brought me back to you. Of which, I am grateful.”

You moved closer, scooching until your shoulders touched. The warm sense of comfort and familiarity startled you every time. “Will you tell me about it?”

“I -” Viktor searched your face, then sighed and sagged against you. “Very well, take us back to the first.”

Doing as he asked, you scrolled back to the first episode of season one. He insisted on watching every bit, even playing the opening and sitting through all the credits for each episode. Maybe he was digesting it. It couldn’t be easy, seeing an alternative version of your life that was so scary close to your own.

“Now I only know these things from the little I could find in Vander’s mind,” Viktor started, “but this is all very much true. The girls lost their parents, and were taken in by him. He lead the rebellion against Piltover and many paid the price for it. I believe much of the foundation was the same. Again, I cannot speak for this part of it. Only my own role.”

You watched as Powder and Vi escaped with their brothers from Jayce’s decimated apartment. Viktor nodded. The first episode’s credits ran, then the second started. You watched the first meeting of Jayce and Viktor.

“And this?” you asked.

“Our Heimerdinger had the same arguments and reservations. However, he was less cautious. We had banter, a thought experiment about what hextech would mean. How we would do it. In the end, the conclusion was the same - that all of Jayce's things were to be confiscated and he jailed. I stole the book. Things went very much the same, until…”

“Until?”

“You were there with Mel that night. You helped us in our efforts to prove what hextech could do. In fact, I very much doubt that we could’ve done it without you in our world.”

You shrugged. “I doubt I did that much.”

“You, darling, were instrumental to our success. Don’t ever doubt.”

You continued to watch. There were some parts that Viktor frowned deeply at. Other parts he scoffed and rolled his eyes. He’d already expressed that your relationship had started during the timeskip. In those five years that were there and gone in a single episode. The happiest years of his life, he said, because of you. Then came the episode you had dreaded rewatching. Viktor paused and rewatched the scene where he collapsed three times. A hand going to his chest.

“I will never be able to unhear the sounds of your sobs, no matter how many universes we end up in,” he whispered, “I was hardly conscious but I could hear you, wailing as if you could see the future. As if you were grieving for every possible instance of our life together. Jayce tried to help, to calm you. But you were positively inconsolable. I don’t think you knew I could hear you. You put on a brave face when I finally regained full awareness, and never took it off until the end.”

Viktor’s bottom lip quivered. He swallowed, breath shaking. You gently took his hand. It seemed to pull him out of that far away place.

“We aren’t there anymore,” you reminded him softly. He squeezed your hand and cleared his throat.

“We worked,” Viktor continued, voice rough now. “There is so much in this time gap that you do not see. So many things that were not even a possibility here. I cannot tell you them all.”

“Can you give me an overview?”

“How can I tell you a lifetime's worth of memories?” Viktor chuckled, “We laughed, we argued, we fucked on the work table until the sun came up, which Jayce walked in on more than once. We screamed and cried and loved, and worked ourselves to the bone. In the end, it wasn't enough. The rocket still came, I still died, and you and Jayce put me in the hexcore. I still became the Machine Herald. I was the villain, at the end, but worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man you see here is tame. He thought about what he was doing, how he could change things. But I came back angry. I ripped through Piltover and Zaun like a wildfire. That colony that you see in Arcane, that is but a sample of the havoc I wrought. I thought I could not be opposed. And that, were I to be, I would consume them. Make them part of the evolution, whether they wanted it or not.” Shame was etched into Viktor’s face. He covered it with his hands. “I know now how foolish it was. How power hungry I became. A vengeful god, and you paid the price. It was you who gotten taken into the hexcore. Who broke your leg, spent gods know how long alone and scared. Jayce got sent elsewhere, suffered another kind of torture, and he saw this…thing that I’d become. You worked together to end me. But you were the one absorbed into whatever was left of me after. I suppose Jayce must've been too, though I don’t remember.”

“Do you think that’s why the three of us are here? We got absorbed then slingshotted somewhere?”

Viktor uncovered his face. “Perhaps.”

“But why here?”

Viktor leaned into you. “In the end, as we were swept away into the cosmos, all I could think of was the things we had not been able to have. The people we weren’t able to be. How happy I was that you were there and how I wanted to stay with you always. How much I wanted to redeem myself in your eyes. - So perhaps this was the answer to my anguish. My redemption. A different life, another chance. Jayce woke up the sole heir to a tool company empire. He had no recollection of any of this new life. I was his roommate in college, apparently. I’m not sure if I truly lived that life and, when the awakening happened, I forgot about it. Or if we took the lives of other people. I am glad to see you, at least, got to live a full life.”

Silence stretched between you as you digested this information. You chewed it over, like fat off a steak. So things really were that different where you’d come from. Perhaps it was better that Arcane was just a show to you. But would it always be? It was all so big, so may possibilities.

“How long do you think we’ll have? Will this happen again?” you rushed, the existentialism of it all washing over you. “When we die will we be sent to a new world, forced to live new lives -”

Viktor wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close. His familiar scent calmed you immediately. It was so strange that your body reacted like you were already in love. Like Viktor was the safest person in the world who brought you the most comfort. You could see yourself falling in love with him in this life too, in fact, you already were.

Just a month ago, you had been a different person. With a different life. Now a man you’d thought only to be fictional was real. And he was yours, right down to his core. How strange a concept was that? What sort of fate had been designed for you?

“We will have a lifetime or more,” Viktor said, “I’m not sure how this will work. If we get this life together, then we have to find each other again in the next one. Or if this will be a repeating cycle. Where it is I who has to find you as penanace. I’m fine with anything. I’ll find you, no matter what it takes or where we go. - Would you mind?”

You sat up just enough to look at him. “Would I mind what?”

“Would you mind if I chased you?” Viktor leaned his forehead to yours, and your heart gave a little flip. “What is it that the fandom says? - Every universe, every timeline?”

“Something along those lines,” you chuckled, “I think I’d like that.”

~*~*~

[misshoneyimhome]

What’s up, buttercups! 💕

First things first — I'd like to apologise for this chapter 🙈 I honestly just had one idea in mind the entire time (yes, that last one), so the rest may feel a bit like filler… sorry! And yes, I fully admit I’m playing my characters like pawns right now — but hey, my story, my rules 😏

As always, happy reading! I really do hope you enjoy it 😘 Sending lots of love ❤️

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, 18+ smut: Auston x female character; oral sex (m receiving), protected vaginal sex - Auston x reader; oral sex (f receiving), public space

Word count: 7.5k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine ; Chapter ten

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter eleven: Thin Ice & Royal Wreckage*

::

The Benchwarmer

Chapter Eleven: Thin Ice & Royal Wreckage

::

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

A Queen’s reign is rarely without scandal. One kiss. One flash of a camera. One frozen moment, and just like that—the narrative shifts.

Once hailed for her loyalty, our Queen now stands accused. Betrayer. Manipulator. The internet’s new villain.

But what of our King? The ever-composed, ever-controlled Ice King—how deep does this cut?

The question remains: does he feel nothing, or has the Queen struck where it hurts most?

Either way, the air has turned cold. And the cracks beneath them are beginning to show.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

_

Thursday –

You should’ve known. You had known—deep down, in the part of your gut that always flinched right before the fall, that instinctive, sinking sensation you’d learned to stop ignoring. The second Ryan’s lips brushed yours—even if it was brief, even if it didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of whatever this strange, spiralling situation with Auston had become—you knew, with every fibre of your being, that consequences would follow, swift and sharp and loud, because that’s how this world worked now.

And still… still, it didn’t stop the sting when you woke up and found yourself smack in the middle of the chaos. Again.

Your phone was vibrating non-stop, the screen lighting up like it was short-circuiting, with messages and alerts and pings stacking one on top of the other like dominoes with nowhere to fall. Texts from people you hadn’t heard from in months. Missed calls. News push alerts. Mentions on social media that stretched for miles. And all of them—every single one—featuring your name, right next to his. You and Auston. Together. Just like always. Only this time, not in a good way.

You hovered over the screen, thumb frozen for a beat too long before you forced yourself to unlock it, as if maybe—just maybe—waiting a little longer would dull the blow. It didn’t. Of course, it didn’t. Because there it was, at the very top of your feed, bold and capitalised and utterly gutting:

“Leafs Star Auston Matthews’ Girlfriend Caught Kissing Another Man—Trouble in Paradise?”

You could feel the breath leave your lungs before you even processed the rest, your heart thudding loud and steady in your ears as your fingers tightened around the phone, scrolling down with the kind of dread that felt both heavy and inevitable.

The photo wasn’t even that good—grainy, low-res, probably taken from across the street by someone who thought they were being slick—but it didn’t matter. None of that mattered. Because the damage was already done.

There was Ryan. Leaning in. His lips brushing just barely against the corner of your mouth. Your expression frozen in time, your eyes wide, your lips parted—caught mid-reaction, mid-mistake. And it didn’t matter that it hadn’t been a kiss, not really. Didn’t matter that you’d pulled away, that you hadn’t even processed what was happening until it was already over. Because to the internet, to the masses watching with popcorn in hand, it told a completely different story. One where you were the villain.

You didn’t even need to check the comments—you could practically hear them already, sharp and bitter and cruel in the way only strangers online could be.

“She was using Auston all along.”“He deserves better.”“What did she think was gonna happen?”

Your stomach twisted, the shame curling deep and acidic as you closed the app with shaking hands and let the phone fall to the bed beside you.

Just a few days ago, you’d been on top of the world. Praised, adored, the girl the internet had claimed was “too good for him,” their favourite Cinderella in a jersey, their sweet, savvy Queen. And now? Now they wanted to see you fall. Hard.

You stared at the ceiling, your thoughts ricocheting too fast to settle, until eventually, finally, you forced yourself out of bed, ignoring the ache in your chest and the burning in your throat as you told yourself—out loud, almost—to pull it together. Because you had a job. You had an event to run tomorrow. You had no choice but to keep moving.

But as the morning dragged on, and the day began to unfold around you, it became harder and harder to pretend that everything was fine, especially when the silence from Auston grew louder with each passing hour.

Nothing. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a goddamn like on your Instagram story from three days ago. And you knew—of course you knew—that he’d seen the photo. Everyone had. You were trending. Again. But still, the nothingness from his end settled into your chest like an anchor, heavy and suffocating.

Work didn’t help. Meetings passed in a blur. Manion looked at you just a little too closely, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. You could practically hear Chase’s voice in his head, whispering poisonous little ideas—maybe without Auston, she’s nothing here. Maybe she just rode his coattails. And maybe—just maybe—he believed it.

But you refused to let that be the truth. So, you worked harder. Smiled wider. Ignored the whispers. Brushed off the tension. Buried it all under the ever-professional facade that had never once cracked.

Until night came.

And you were curled up on your couch, your laptop dimming on the coffee table, your inbox long abandoned, the silence of your apartment pressing in like static—when your phone finally buzzed.

And there it was.

Auston: Seems like the distance is working, huh. Good for you.

The words landed like a punch to the gut, sharp and casual all at once, as if he hadn’t spent the entire day saying nothing, as if he hadn’t watched the internet tear you apart without so much as blinking.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, a slow panic climbing its way up your spine. You typed. Deleted. Typed again. Something—anything—that might explain, soften, fix this. But you didn’t even know what to say.

It wasn’t what it looked like.It didn’t mean anything.I didn’t even kiss him back.

But something told you it wouldn’t matter. That Auston wasn’t texting you for an explanation. He was texting you to make a point.

Still, you tried.

You: Auston, I thought this was the idea?

Auston: it was

You: then what’s the problem? Do we need to talk about it? I mean, we’re still friends right 

The typing bubble appeared for a moment—brief, taunting—before his reply landed like ice water.

Auston: What’s there to talk about? It doesn’t matter. This wasn’t anything anyway. We’re not friends and we never have been. You can kiss whoever you like. Doesn’t matter to me.

You sucked in a sharp breath, fingers trembling where they hovered above the screen, because no matter how many times you reminded yourself this wasn’t real, wasn’t supposed to be real—those words still cut.

Cold. Calculated. Final.

And you knew then, without question, that The Ice King had returned. Not the version of him you’d come to know in quiet moments and lingering touches, not the one who brushed hair from your face and kissed your neck like it meant something. No, this version was the one the media always warned about.

And even though you had told yourself from the very beginning not to get attached—this still hurt like hell.

You: can we at least talk about tomorrow? 

_

Auston didn’t know what it was exactly, not really. Because if he were to name it—if he were to sit there and let himself actually feel it, label it, turn it over in his hands and examine it—then he’d have to admit that it was something ugly, something sharp and wild and clawing. And he didn’t want that, not when he’d spent so long telling himself this thing between the two of you didn’t matter. Maybe it was jealousy, though he wouldn’t dare say it out loud, and yeah, there was definitely frustration, a lot of it actually, thick and hot and choking in the back of his throat. And maybe, just maybe, a flicker of guilt too, though he was far too proud to let himself dwell on that for long.

But mostly, if he had to boil it down, he was pissed—pissed that the photo existed in the first place, pissed that someone had the audacity to snap it and post it. Pissed that you had been out in public letting some other guy lean into your space and brush his lips against your skin, even if it hadn’t meant anything, even if it wasn’t what it looked like. Because you were supposed to be his—not really his, not officially, not in the way that counted, but still, in this twisted, half-real way that only the two of you understood—and seeing that moment captured, frozen in time, broadcast to the world like it was some kind of headline? That made his blood boil in a way he wasn’t ready to unpack.

And sure, he had been the one who suggested the distance, who told you both it was smart to cool things off, to create some space between yourselves, to give the illusion of something less-than, because it was easier that way, cleaner, more controlled—but he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to see someone else in the space he’d come to consider his. And now? Now he couldn’t stop picturing it—Ryan’s lips ghosting yours, the smile on your face that probably matched the one you gave Auston, the way you tilted your head when you laughed, like you were letting this guy in, even for a second, the same way you let him in.

He hated it. Hated every part of it. Hated that you let someone else that close. Hated that the entire internet had seen it, commented on it, turned it into clickbait. But most of all, more than anything else, he hated himself—because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like betrayal.

Because Auston had learned far too early that girls always had an angle. That it was never just about him, never about who he was beneath the jersey, beneath the pay check, beneath the public persona. It was about what he could do, what doors he could open, what status he could provide. And you had played into the part no differently. You wanted credibility, attention, your name in rooms it hadn’t been in before, and he had given you that. Willingly. Because that was the deal. 

So why—why the hell—did it feel like something had been taken from him?

His phone buzzed on the table beside him, screen lighting up with your message still lingering, the words staring back at him, soft and too real: like friends. 

And there, just beneath it, his own response—cutting and distant and far too cruel for someone who had kissed you like he had: We’re not friends. Never have been.

Auston let out a harsh breath, dragging a hand through his already messy hair, fingers knotting at the roots as frustration pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. 

And so, because he didn’t want to feel any of it—because he couldn’t—Auston did what Auston Matthews does when the thoughts got too loud and the pressure too much. He scrolled until he found someone he knew would say yes, someone who didn’t ask questions. A quick text. A quicker response. And soon she was at his door.

She was pretty—tall, brunette, confident in that practiced kind of way, the kind of woman who knew exactly how the night would go the second she walked through the door. They’d done this before. Too many times.

Auston didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. His hands were already at her waist, his mouth already against her throat, her giggle airy and sweet as she leaned into him like she belonged there. But he wasn’t listening to her laugh, wasn’t reacting to her whispered nothings. He was already somewhere else.

He undressed her quickly, efficiently, discarding lacy pieces of fabric like they were obstacles instead of accessories, pushing her onto the bed with a strength that wasn’t exactly gentle, but not cruel either—just determined. Her skin was soft beneath his palms, warm and willing, and she moaned when he kissed down her neck and trailed lower. But even then, even as she spread herself for him like she was ready to worship, Auston felt nothing.

Because it wasn’t you. And that was the point.

There was no tenderness here, no slow build-up, no smirk passed between kisses or shy glances exchanged in the dark. There was only the sound of fabric rustling, breath quickening, and the quiet hum of the city beyond his windows. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t meaningful. It wasn’t anything like what he remembered it being with you.

She was already on all four on the mattress, her hair tangled in his fingers, her lips parting as she took his length into her mouth without hesitation. He hadn’t even been sure he could hard, not with how twisted his thoughts were, how heavy everything felt—but apparently, his body was still more than capable of going through the motions.

And she tried. God, did she try. Her mouth was wet, warm, and eager, her throat swallowing around him as he pushed deeper, his grip tightening in her hair, his hips snapping forward with purpose. She moaned like it meant something, like she was doing him a favour, and maybe she was, but it didn’t matter. Because no matter how deep she went, how perfectly her lips stretched around him, how many times she gagged or whimpered or looked up at him with those glossy eyes—she still wasn’t you.

He let his eyes flutter shut, let the memory of your lips wrap around him instead, let himself recall the way your hands had trembled at first, uncertain but so determined to please him. The way you’d looked up at him, vulnerable but eager, and how he’d never wanted anything more than to ruin you in the best way possible. You had been new to it, hesitant and unsure, but when you found your rhythm? You were perfect. Fucking perfect.

Auston groaned at the memory, his hips moving of their own accord, driving forward until her nose met his skin, until her throat fluttered around him. But it still wasn’t enough. 

He pulled away without a word, flipped her onto her stomach, positioned her with practiced ease. He grabbed a condom, rolled it on, lined himself up, and then—just like that—he pushed inside. She moaned, high-pitched and eager, gripping the sheets as he started to move.

It was fast. It was rough. It was mechanical. A release and nothing more.

She whimpered when his hands tightened at her hips, when he slammed into her harder, deeper. Her nails scraped the bed, her breath stuttered, her voice went high and sweet as she called out his name. But he wasn’t listening. Not really.

He thought about your body. The way it had welcomed him. The way your breath had caught, the way you’d gasped when he filled you. The way your eyes had widened, your fingers fisting in the sheets, your lips parting as he pushed you to the edge and kept you there until you cried out in pleasure.

He tried to shake it off. Tried to stay here, in this room, with this woman.

But he couldn’t.

She cried out again when he spanked her, when his pace turned punishing, when he yanked her hair back and fucked her like she was something to conquer. But it wasn’t for her. It wasn’t about her. It never had been.

He was chasing something he couldn’t name. A feeling he couldn’t reach. A ghost he couldn’t hold.

And when he came—hard, fast, sharp—it was with a groan that had your name on the edge of it, even if he didn’t let it pass his lips. His body trembled. His muscles locked. His mind went momentarily blank.

But then it ended.

And so did everything else.

He pulled out, tossed the condom, wiped a hand over his face, chest still heaving. She curled into his side like she belonged there, her lips brushing his jaw as she whispered something soft, something flirty, something sweet. “Mmm, I’ve missed you, Matty.”

He barely reacted. Reached for his phone. Scanned the screen.

Your name still wasn’t there.

He locked the screen, set it down, let his head fall back against the pillows.

“Go to sleep,” he muttered.

And she did.

But him? He stayed awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, body spent, chest hollow, and mind still circling the only thing that mattered.

You.

_

“Ice cracks under pressure, and from where we stand, the once-solid foundation of our royal couple is beginning to splinter.

A single photo shifted the power. Our Queen, once cherished, now faces whispers of betrayal. The Kingdom has turned. And the King? He’s gone silent.

And silence, when it comes to the Ice King, only ever means one thing—he’s calculating his next move.

Then came the sighting. Late night. A familiar brunette entering his chambers. A replacement? A decoy? A distraction from the storm?

Whatever it was, one thing’s clear—

Winter has arrived. And it’s never felt colder.

– The Benchwarmer”

_

Friday –

You hadn’t heard from Auston since the night before, and somehow, despite everything—despite the words that had already cut so clean and deep—you still kept hoping for something, anything, to shift. A text. A call. A moment of clarity. But the silence stretched endlessly, each hour thickening the weight that had settled in your chest, pressing down with every reminder that he had meant what he said. Or maybe, worse, that he hadn’t meant it at all—that it had been so easy for him to shut the door that you had once thought might’ve been cracked open, just slightly, for you.

You had always known what this was. Right from the beginning, you’d told yourself you understood the deal, that it was just strategic, just temporary—and yet, somewhere between the teasing remarks and the long looks and the quiet moments that didn’t make it into the public eye; somewhere between the way his hand had found yours and the way his voice softened when no one else was around, the lie had started to unravel. Thread by thread. 

But then he said it.

We’re not friends. Never have been.

And that was it. That was the moment the illusion finally shattered, and you could practically hear the crack echo through your chest, that final, piercing confirmation that you had gotten it all wrong—that the person you thought you were beginning to understand had never been real to begin with. Not even a little bit.

Still, despite the ache that hadn’t let up since you read those words on your phone screen, you had a job to do. The event was tonight, the one you’d poured weeks into organising, and Auston—regardless of whatever was left or not left between you—was meant to be there. As your guest. A player. A face. And you needed him to show up, because if he didn’t… Chase would be right - everything you’d worked so hard for might actually fall apart. Because who were you without Auston?

So, ignoring every logical voice screaming inside your head, you soon found yourself in the lobby of his condo building, smiling tightly at the receptionist who barely blinked before letting you up, as if this was a perfectly normal visit, as if your heart wasn’t lodged somewhere in your throat and your nerves weren’t thrumming under your skin like electricity.

It was supposed to be simple. Just a confirmation. Just one quick conversation. That was all.

That’s what you told yourself.

And maybe you really had believed it—right up until the door opened and it wasn’t Auston.

A tall brunette stood there, bare legs, smudged mascara, and one of Auston’s hoodies hanging off her shoulders like it belonged. She blinked, surprised but not flustered. “Oh. Hi?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The ground dropped out from under you, and every emotion you’d been trying not to feel—jealousy, hurt, betrayal—crashed into you like a wave you didn’t see coming.

“Who is it?” came Auston’s voice from inside.

And then he was there. Shirtless. Sleep-mussed. Looking every bit like a man who hadn’t expected anything to change.

His eyes landed on you, and for just a beat, you saw it—something flicker across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or guilt. Or something messier that you didn’t have the strength to name. But whatever it was, it disappeared almost as quickly as it came, replaced with something flat, careful, and unreadable.

And when he spoke, his voice didn’t waver. It didn’t crack. It didn’t sound angry or cruel or even remorseful. It just sounded… detached. “What are you doing here?”

As if you were nothing more than a misdelivered package on his doorstep. As if you hadn’t given him pieces of yourself that no one else had ever touched.

You stood taller—barely—but it was enough. Enough to make your voice steady, your chin lift, your pride snap into place like armour. “I just came to check in about the event tonight,” you said, keeping your tone brisk, businesslike, professional. “To make sure you were still coming.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded like this was nothing, like the sight of you standing in his doorway while another girl wore his clothes didn’t mean a damn thing. “I promised, didn't I,” he said simply. 

And that was it. No hesitation.

So, you nodded. Once. Swallowed around the knot in your throat that threatened to rise. “Good,” you said, your voice quieter now, but still even. “See you tonight then.”

And just like that you turned. Walked away before your body could betray the way it trembled, before your voice could crack, before the tears that had been threatening since last night had a chance to slip past your lashes. You didn’t look back. You didn’t let yourself.

The elevator doors slid shut, the world going silent around you, and still—you didn’t let it show.

Not the ache. Not the fury. Not the way your chest ached like something inside it had broken open for the very last time.

Because if he didn’t care? Then you weren’t going to let him see just how much you did.

_

The day had already been a whirlwind in the way these kinds of days always are—non-stop motion, too many voices at once, too many things to track, all the details you’d memorised blurring together beneath the weight of expectation—and yet, somehow, you handled each moment as it came, your chin lifted with quiet determination, your hands steady even as your mind raced to stay ahead of the next request, the next change, the next minor disaster in disguise. 

You looked the part, too. The dress you’d chosen was exactly right, sleek and streamlined, elegant without being loud, tailored so perfectly it might’ve been made just for you. It shimmered just enough to catch the light, the hem grazing your knees, the neckline modest but still striking. Your heels added height without tipping you into discomfort, your hair was swept and styled with delicate precision. And your makeup? Flawless—like a war paint you didn’t need but wore anyway.

And maybe, on the surface, that’s what you were—calm, composed, in control. But beneath that polished exterior, just out of sight and barely concealed beneath layers of willpower and lipstick, there was a gnawing uncertainty, something restless and sharp and anxious, something that whispered louder with every tick of the clock.

Because you didn’t know if he was going to show.

You had told Mr. Manion Auston would, of course you had, brushing off his question with a smile that felt tight around the edges and a rehearsed, breezy “He’ll be here, don’t worry,” even though part of you had worried the moment you walked away from Auston’s condo that morning—the moment you’d seen the look in his eyes and felt the strange, hollow ache settle behind your ribs like something permanent.

And now, hours later, after pacing through the event like a perfectly programmed version of yourself—smiling, networking, double-checking logistics, greeting guests like nothing in the world had shaken you—the doubt was still there, clawing at the back of your mind with increasing force, growing heavier with each passing moment as the minutes bled into hours and the entrance stayed maddeningly empty of the one person who was supposed to be yours, if only in name.

You kept moving, of course—circulating through the room with all the polish the night demanded, answering questions, cracking smiles, accepting compliments with that steady nod you’d perfected over time.

Until—

He arrived.

Of course he did.

And naturally, he made it a moment, like some perfectly orchestrated scene pulled straight from a movie you didn’t even know you’d been starring in. 

Auston stepped through the grand entrance like it was built for him, the lights catching him just right, the flashes from nearby cameras bursting like fireworks the moment his figure appeared—and there he was, looking so heartbreakingly good you felt your stomach twist into knots that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the fact that no matter how hard you tried, you had never quite stopped wanting him.

He was dressed in a suit that looked like sin—deep burgundy, tailored to his frame like it had been sewn straight onto his skin, the fabric catching the light in rich, expensive ways that made it impossible not to look. His hair was styled just enough to make it clear he cared, but still tousled enough to carry that signature Auston Matthews edge of effortless cool, like he had just barely bothered and still looked better than anyone else in the room.

And when his eyes finally found yours across the crowd—no smirk, no arrogance, just the faintest echo of something…

He didn’t rush. He never did. Auston moved through the crowd slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world and knew you’d be watching him the entire way. Each step felt stretched out by the weight of anticipation, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat as you tried to school your features into something neutral and professional.

When he finally reached you, his gaze swept over you—your dress, your jaw, your mouth set like you were holding something back. And when he spoke, his voice was low, smooth. “You look good,” he murmured, simple but sincere.

You forced a breath out through your nose, lifting your chin and meeting his gaze with as much composure as you could manage. “So do you,” you said quietly, evenly, like the sight of him hadn’t just pulled the floor out from under you.

He chuckled, and then, without any real warning, his hand slid around your waist.

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe something deeper—but your body remembered his touch: the warmth, the weight of his hand, the way it made you feel both steadier and shakier all at once—and before you could even think to stop it, you leaned just slightly into his touch.

And then he kissed you.

Not passionately, not hungrily, not in the way you remembered from when everything had been a blur of hands and mouths and need—but softly, gently, like he was placing a period at the end of a very public sentence, like he was sealing the illusion with something that looked just real enough to fool them all.

It was a show. You knew that. A performance. A calculated moment in front of flashing cameras and curious eyes. But it didn’t stop the way something deep inside you cracked open.

Because his lips lingered just a second too long. His grip on your waist tightened, ever so slightly. And your own body betrayed you—leaning into the kiss, responding before your mind could scream no, before your logic could remind you what this was supposed to be.

And Auston felt it too.

You knew he did, because when he pulled back—barely, just enough to let the world breathe again—his gaze didn’t immediately shift away. He didn’t smile for the cameras or look for the next move. He just looked at you.

Then, quietly, voice low enough that no one else could hear, he said, “I told you, boss. I always show up.”

And just like that, the world tilted sideways, and you had no idea which direction was safe anymore.

The evening unfolded with the kind of smooth, effortless rhythm that only comes from weeks of meticulous planning and practiced routine—or at least, that’s how it looked from the outside, through the lens of cameras and curated glances, because you and Auston stayed close, never too far from each other’s orbit, playing your roles with the kind of finesse that made it all seem natural, even easy. Even though everything between wasn’t real and was rehearsed.

Together, you were seamless—the soft touches, the brush of his fingers at your back, the way your bodies angled instinctively toward each other. If anyone doubted the authenticity of your relationship, they didn’t voice it. Not tonight. Not when the illusion was this convincing.

But under the surface—just beneath the polished smiles and half-laughed anecdotes—there was tension, a quiet charge humming between your bodies that neither of you dared to name aloud. It lingered in the way his gaze sometimes held yours a second too long, in the near-misses of your hands brushing, in the subtle stiffness of his posture whenever your laughter drew the attention of someone else in the room. It was there, simmering like something that wanted to boil over, but couldn’t—not yet.

The night wore on—champagne flutes, polite laughter, speeches and photo ops blurring into background noise. Through it all, you floated through the room with a professional grace you didn’t quite feel, making sure everyone else felt seen and heard and impressed. Because that was your job.

And then, somehow, somewhere between the fourth round of drinks and another passed tray of hors d’oeuvres, you found yourself tucked into a small cluster of MLSE executives and their spouses, Auston beside you like always, and just like that, the conversation shifted.

They wanted to talk about you. About him. About the two of you.

Your “relationship.”

It wasn’t surprising, really—you’d expected the questions to come at some point. You’d prepared the answers, even practiced the tone you’d use. But when it actually happened, when the words were spoken aloud by a woman in a floor-length navy gown with too much perfume and too much interest, there was a pause. A beat of silence that stretched just a little too long, one you hadn’t anticipated.

For the first time in a long while, you didn’t immediately reach for the script.

Your eyes flicked toward Auston, searching for something—maybe permission, maybe encouragement, maybe just the reassurance that you weren’t alone in this—and then you smiled, soft and just a touch shy, tilting your head slightly as if the memory had caught you off guard. “I just fell for him,” you said, your voice light, the edges of your words shaped like a joke, but something in your tone too honest to be dismissed. “Literally, actually.”

There was laughter—warm, amused—but you weren’t finished.

“And when he caught me,” you added, more quietly now, your gaze drifting toward him again, “I just… I knew.” Your smile was small but real, something aching behind it as your voice dipped into something gentler. “He was the only man I ever wanted to catch me when I fell.”

You hadn’t meant to say that part. It had slipped out, unfiltered and raw, and the second it did, you felt the atmosphere shift.

Auston’s eyes snapped to yours, and for a moment—just a moment—there was no mask, no smirk, no carefully constructed wall of indifference. Just something soft. Something almost stunned. Something like he’d felt the words in his chest the way you’d felt them in your throat.

You looked away before it could settle, before it could mean something.

But the spotlight turned to him then, and it was his turn to speak.

There was a pause—noticeable, heavy—and then Auston cleared his throat, shifting slightly, and when he finally opened his mouth, his voice was lower than usual, warmer somehow, like he was stepping into a version of himself he hadn’t quite decided he was ready for.

“She was just meant to fall into my arms,” he said, and the ease in his tone made it sound like a line, something polished and ready for public consumption, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something unsteady, something not entirely rehearsed. “Like it was fate.”

Your breath caught, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your dress.

And then he kept going.

“I never thought I could feel this way about anyone,” he said, his voice dipping into something softer now, something not meant for anyone but you, and maybe not even for you, maybe just for himself. “I’ve never really tried before. I didn’t get what people meant when they talked about love, I didn’t think I believed in it, not really. Soulmates. The one.” He hesitated, gaze fixed on yours, and when he spoke again, it felt like a confession. “Not until I met her.”

Your heart was pounding. Loud enough that it almost drowned out the music. Loud enough that it made it hard to think.

Because you knew what this was supposed to be. You knew this was just the story. The role. The part of the night where you smiled and let people believe in fairy tales.

And yet.

There was something in his voice. Something in the way he was looking at you. Something that tugged at the very centre of your chest and made you wonder—just for a second—if maybe, somehow, the lines between act and reality had blurred without either of you noticing.

And then his hand found yours.

Just barely—just the brush of his fingers at first, light and uncertain like he didn’t quite know if it would be welcome—and then more. His fingers slid between yours, warm and solid and familiar in a way that felt so stupidly intimate it nearly made you forget where you were.

The world fell quiet around you, or maybe it just didn’t matter anymore. Because for those few suspended seconds, it was just the two of you.

Auston didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. His hand was enough. His silence was enough.

You met his gaze and held it—longer than you should have, longer than was appropriate, longer than was safe—and whatever passed between you then was quiet and wordless and far too real for either of you to untangle in front of strangers.

A voice broke the moment—soft, warm, the woman beside you smiling like she’d seen the whole thing in perfect clarity. “A love like this is rare,” she said kindly. “You should be proud to have found each other.”

Neither of you answered.

Because neither of you knew if you’d found anything at all.

The event had begun to wind down in the way all things do—slowly, softly, the grand ballroom still pulsing with the faint thrum of conversation and polite laughter and the air dense with the fading warmth of spotlight attention, of practiced charm and public smiles. But your role, at least, was almost finished, and you had slipped away from the glittering main floor to find a sliver of quiet in the back hallway, away from the flash of cameras and the constant pressure to perform.

There, in the muted glow of the corridor lighting, you had your phone in hand, your fingers scrolling through final details—just one last check, one more round of logistics to ensure the night had unfolded exactly the way it was meant to. And it had, at least on the surface, because professionally, everything had gone off without a hitch—but emotionally, personally, everything still felt like it was hanging in the balance, like a question you hadn’t yet dared to ask out loud.

You exhaled slowly, allowing yourself a moment to lean against the wall, to press the back of your head gently against the cool plaster and feel it ground you, anchor you. And that was when you felt it.

Not a sound, not a footstep—just a shift in the air, a sudden awareness prickling along your skin, the kind that made the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand up because you didn’t need to turn around to know he was there. Watching you, standing just far enough away that it still counted as space but close enough that you felt the burn of his presence before his voice even touched you.

When you finally did look up, there he was.

Auston.

Backlit by the soft light spilling from the ballroom behind him, the collar of his burgundy suit slightly loosened now, the line of his jaw tense, his expression unreadable but intense in that way that always made your breath catch. And for a long, drawn-out moment neither of you moved, neither of you spoke, and the silence between you expanded, stretched tight like a wire about to snap.

You parted your lips, finally willing yourself to speak, to say something, anything, his name maybe, just to break the tension. But before you could get the words out, before you could even take another breath, he was moving.

And just like that, suddenly he was there, right in front of you. Close enough that you barely registered the shift before his hands were cupping your face, strong and sure, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as his fingers tangled into your styled hair, and then—his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t the slow, curated kiss you’d shared earlier under the eyes of a dozen cameras and the curated fantasy of the night.

No, this was different.

This was sharp and fast and urgent. The kind of kiss that stole your breath and forced your spine to arch off the wall. The kind that made your hands scramble for purchase at the lapels of his jacket, gripping tightly as he pressed you back, his entire body anchoring you in place, flush against yours in a way that made your head spin.

He kissed you like a man starved. Like he had been waiting all night to do this. His lips slanted against yours with a hunger that bordered on reckless. And when your mouth opened to meet his, when his tongue slid against yours in a slow, deliberate stroke, the world outside this hallway ceased to exist.

You felt the pressure of his hands at your waist, felt them drift lower as he gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress. And when he finally pulled away, just slightly, his mouth trailing kisses along your jaw and down the curve of your throat, the heat of his breath against your skin sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“I want to taste you…” he rasped, voice low, strained, like the words had been torn straight from somewhere deep inside him. And though you didn’t answer, didn’t speak, didn’t say anything at all—you didn’t pull away either.

Your silence said enough.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, keeping him close, your chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm as he sank to his knees in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this wasn’t a public venue. Like the walls around you didn’t house a hundred colleagues and strangers and reasons why this shouldn’t be happening—but none of that mattered.

Not when he was looking up at you like that.

His hands slid along your thighs. Slow and reverent, fingers bunching the soft material of your gown, inching it up, higher and higher, exposing the smooth skin of your legs until the cool air kissed the tops of your thighs and the sheer intimacy of it had your breath catching all over again.

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, steady and confident, and you gasped—half from the position, half from the sheer audacity of it—and then his mouth was pressing gentle kisses against the inside of your thigh. Each one higher than the last, his breath hot, his movements slow, deliberate, maddening.

“Auston,” you whispered, voice barely audible, half a warning, half a plea, your hands tightening in his hair. But he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, didn’t even blink as he brushed your underwear aside with the ease of someone who had done it before; who remembered exactly how you tasted, how you sounded, how you came undone for him.

And then his mouth met your core.

Heat exploded through you like a fuse had been lit. Your body jolting with the first contact of his tongue—warm and firm, unrelenting—and your back hit the wall again, your breath escaping in a broken moan as he held you in place, strong hands gripping your thighs with just enough pressure to make your knees weak.

He devoured you like he meant it.

Like this was the only thing that mattered. Like he could erase the chaos, the silence, the girl in his hoodie, the game between you. Like he could make all of it disappear with nothing more than his mouth and the way he moved against you.

You gasped, your fingers fisting the shoulders of his suit, your head falling back as he worked you with torturous precision. His tongue stroking, dipping, circling, finding the rhythm he knew would unravel you. And when your body trembled and your thighs clenched and you whispered his name like a prayer, he only pressed deeper, faster, chasing the high he knew was close.

And when it finally hit—when your body shattered and your release surged through you in dizzying, desperate waves—he didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, didn’t even lift his mouth until he was sure he’d wrung every last second of pleasure from you.

He kissed the inside of your thigh once more. Softer this time, before rising to his feet, hands steadying you as you struggled to catch your breath, as you looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes and lips parted, still trembling from the force of it all.

And in the silence that followed, with his hands on your waist and your fingers still tangled in the lapel of his jacket, you stared at each other like neither of you knew how to be the first to speak. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen, and yet, it had, and now there was no taking it back.

His eyes searched yours, dark and unreadable, but something in them softened—just slightly—as if this, this moment, this act, had said everything he didn’t know how to, and maybe that was enough.

Auston wasn’t strong with words. Yet, you knew what he was silently saying.

‘We’re good.’

He exhaled, a shaky breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for far too long, and then, finally, he offered you a small, tired smile.

“See you around.”

_

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

Galas have a way of casting spells, don’t they? All that glitter, all those eyes watching—where whispered rumours can bloom into something far more dangerous beneath the chandeliers. And tonight? Tonight felt different. Not just polished, but personal.

Our King and Queen stood side by side, commanding the room like it was theirs by birthright. And maybe, in a way, it was. Every glance, every touch, every shared look was deliberate. A warning, perhaps. A message sent loud and clear:

No outsider threatens the throne.

Her loyalty had been questioned. His silence had been deafening. But somehow, amid scandal and speculation, they found their way back into the spotlight—not fractured, but stronger. Together.

Because tonight wasn’t just performance. Tonight, something shifted. And if there’s one thing we know about power, dear readers—it never fades quietly.

Game on royalties. Game on. 

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

[pokespe-rainbow]

Any Tmnt Iteration x Spiderman!Reader: Requiring Help

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Warning: Medical Innecurencies of Seizures and Electrocution

"Burne Thompson reporting from Channel Six. Once again that Spider Menace attacks once again!" - the a-word you call your Boss slams his closed fist against the desk table ok the TV - "They and their accomplice, Electro, as this vandal calls himself, completely wrecked Times Square Plaza in a clearly terrorist attack" - he announce, and on the other side of the screen, Michelangelo gasped

"What a bitch!" - he muttered, but a flying object slamed against the side of his head and throw him backwards. Mikey get up hissing in pain and looked, next to his head… A slipper..

"Michelangelo" - came Splinter's voice - "What I've told you always?"

"Eeehh…. Stop playing videogames and go cleaning my bedroom?" - he said in a doubitative tone

"The other thing…"

"Not skating on the lair"

Splinter looked done - "The other other thing…"

"If you planned to do harm, do lots of harm?"

Splinter looked at Michelangelo with a blank expression - "Michelangelo, you concern me"

Mikey was about to ask what his father was talking about but the voice of April's Boss came to distract him.

"Let's pass this report to our star reporter Vernon Fenwik" - the screen is divided between April's Boss and than annoying guy April come to complain about - "Talk to us Vern"

"Here, Vernon Fenwik reporting from Channel Six." - Vernon was now in full control of the narrative, behind of him, the lights of the police cars illuminated the scene - "As you can appreciate, is just the mutual effort of our police department plus the quick action of the Earth Protection Force to be the ones that put civilians in safety and aprehend [S/n]'s accomplice"

The camera now focused on the EPF group, they have Electro, with his ridiculous green and yellow suit that make him look like a Christmas tree, with wierd looking handcuffs that tied his hands behind his back, being placed on the back of the truck.

"As for the main perpetrator, [S/n], has still escaped policial persecution, now, roaming free on New York streets we don't know —AAAH!" - Vernon let out a girly scream as a buck of [Your suit color] paint was thrown at him

"Screw Channel Six! [S/n] Forever!" - a middle schooler screamed, snatching the camera from the camera man and then running away

The last image was the blurry persecution from the camera point of view behind the teens arm. Returning to Channel Six Burne Thompson had a shocked expression before looking at the camera.

"Let's… Let's get going with the weather report from Irma Langstent. "

Mikey let out a cackling as he turned off the TV.

"Oh God, [S/n] has to see this" - he snickered, taking out his T-Phone

You were registered as Web-Slinger

Mikey waited five tones before the other side picked up the phone - "Mmhhh… Mikey?" - panted [S/n] form the other side of the line - "Friendly Neighbor [S/n] wheeze Not so ready to fight crime. I won't be coming outside during electric stoms for a while. "

"Oh, it's okay to fear things! Like Raph's scared of bugs, Leo's somehow scared of gummybears on pizza, and Donnie is scared of letting Leo near the toaster!"

"…. I got electrocuted, Mikey" - You said after a small pause

"……….. Oh…." - muttered Mikey after a while - "Wait… Is that a bad thing?"

"I'll get over it…" - you take another sharp inhale from the other side of the line - "I guess I'm a little… static right now,"

"Oh God, that was bad" - laughed Mikey. You let a small laugh from the other side of the line - "Leo's puns level of bad"

"Lower your voice. He might hear you." - you joked

"No, he won't. They got out on a mission and let me out. Donnie says I'm still recovering, but it has been two weeks! I'm going to be as old as Master Splinter when they let me out of here!"

"He definitely can hear EVERYTHING. He's like Beetlejuice! Say his name three times, and he'll show up. "

There was the sound of an explosion from your side of the phone - "What was that?"

"Something go Boom, so I'm going to investigate, talk to you later" - there was a noise, and the call ended abruptly

Where did his brotherssaid they where going to be?

Smoke arise and pink lasers were blasted from all the directions. Three turtle brothers hide behind a wall as trying to avoid the Kraang droids.

"Great Job Fearless Leader!" - screamed Raphael, stabbing a near Kraang droid on the neck area, taking down the robot - "This was definitely not a trap!"

"We won't be in this situation if SOMEONE DIDN'T ACTIVATE THE ALARM! Ring A Bell!?" - Leonardo slashed through another Kraang droid - "How's that going, Donnie?"

"We can't trust on the sprinkles on working" - grunted Donnie, trying to connect to cables to a dispositive without results

Leonardo checked his surroundings for a way out. This storage was a lead April gave them, and despite they found some mutagen canisters, they were caught by surprise on the last minute. One thing taken to the other and Raphael in his impulsivity had jumped straight into the problem.

Fuck

A familiar twip sound called Leo's attention and three Kraang droids were tossed aside as a familiar arachnid hero hanged upside down in front of them.

"Do you need a hand? Or eight?" - they joked. They joked! In a tense moment like this! - "Just kidding, I don't have extra limbs"

Leo could be frustrated by the lack of care [S/n] was showing, but he'll be a fat lier if he say he didn't let out a sigh of relief when they entered the scene.

The kind of person that could suplex a giant lizard without care in the world

[S/n] almost seemed to give a small smile by the way the lenses on the mask squinted at them, but suddenly they where tense, and with a fluid move a web was shoot from their wrist and yanked, the droid came close and then there was an arm going through the droid's chest. It stopped glowing pink and let out his charge.

That seemed to catch them off guard

"Oh fuck! A Xenomorph!" - they squealed and threw the droid across the room without effort, charge and everything - "Donnie, I'm melting?"

"Doesn't had acid blood, so no" - Said Donnie, kind of tired. How many tiems they've asked him the same question?

[S/n] avoided an upcoming laser to their head by moving slightly and Leo cursed under his breath before yanking them to the safety of their coverage.

"How are you even here in the first place?" - he asked/whispered

"If you didn't notice, half this building's on fire" - and then [S/n] had the audacity of bopping him on the snout…

THEY.BOOP.HIS.SNOUT!

"Who are the Terminators anyway?" - they slowly crawled upwards, jjat slightly above Leo

"You know" - answered Raphael, smacking another droid with his twin sais - "Your stereotypical alien species that wants to invade Earth. And the ones that had been mutating everything around here"

"….Cool" - they squinted their eyes - "When you we're gonna tell me about the alien invasion thing?" - they looked at Leo, practically batting their eyelashes with an innocent voice

"We got it handled" - Leo huffed, slightly hiding his head in his shell

"Yo' ass you mean" - They didn't stop looking at Leo as another 'twip' sound, and a droid was on the floor

You're pretty sure you could handle these guys any day or night, but right now, you didn't feel conditioned to heavy exercising.

Note for you, manage a supervillian per time.

"Got it!" - Exclaimed Donatello, connecting a blue and red cables together

The sprinklers activated and artificial rain started pouring into the building, the fire quickly being turned off. You looked at your hands, the electric current was out long time ago, so you'll be fine. Maybe. Probably.

You escaled through the ceiling without being noticed by the droids, Raphael shuddered a little. It was like that creepy girl with the dress from that random horror movie Mikey made them watch in late night. No, he wasn't scared. Two hand signals and more droids were put off the game, now trapped on the roof.

Raphael yeeted one of his sais to the things head, ripping it off and making the surprise toy scramble on the floor and try to escape with their pathetic limbs at an annoying slow rithm, while screaming bloody murder. Please, Leo, let him eliminate that thing.

Luckily for him, a web was shot to the thing, covering his mouth and trapping it on the spot.

"I think that was the last one" - you said, still attached to the roof

"Good, let's finish this, quickly" - Leo ordered, and Raphael rolled his eyes. What a Splinter Junior.

You shrugged and let yourself drop like a dead weight before landing on your feet.

You could really use a break right now.

You looked over your hand, feeling a small tremor and your arm feel gobbly.

Nerve damage? How? Why are you feeling the effects now?

You tried to keep a firm grip on the canister but seemed that your muscles were failing you in that exact moment. You looked around to see if someone got to see you struggle. You didn't know if it was a good or a bad thing that no one seemed to pay you attention.

Deep breaths

It's okay

Don't panic

Don't panic

It's your body

You look up at the turtles, Donatello seemingly putting a weird piece of technology of one of the boxes.

"…on" - You try to call, but your voice cames small, almost invisible - "… aph…"

You start to feel desperate as no one seems to pay attention to you. You could feel about to cry out of frustration. Maybe you should've done something about the electrocution.

"…. Leo…" - You called - "… Hel…."

The leader in blue furrows his unexistential eyebrows at the sound of someone calling him. He looks around, and none of his brothers were looking at him. He almost dismissed it when someone called him again.

Then he looks at you, Leo jas to blink a few times to notice the spasm that come through your arms and your slumped posture.

"So…. Are you guys from Jersey…?"

"[S/n]?" - he asks, take a small step to your direction - "Are you okay….?"

You were okay just a few minutes ago… Did something happen….?

You remained in silence, unfocused eyes behind your mask and looking at the void. Unmoving. And then the last tread that was holding you was suddenly cut off, and you come down like a house of cards.

Leo let out a strangled scream when you fall forward. He barely managed to catch your head before it hit the floor, he couldn't day the same for the rest of your body.

The commotion made the remaining brothers turn around to find Leo, not knowing what exactly to do to your fainted form and the spasm that occurred to your body.

"Donnie!?" - called Leo, not exactly keeping it cool

Donnie had run next to Leo's side, analyzing whatevers wrong with you in mere seconds, gasping when realizing what was happening and quickly taking you from Leo and rolling you over your back and turning you to the side.

"Donnie!? What's happening!?" - Raphael being the only one standing up put both hands over his head not knowing what was happening or what to do

"They're having a seizure!" - he screamed, then turned to look at you - "I'll need to take them to the medbay to see what's wrong"

"Can't you stop this now!?" - Raphael was now genuinely panicking, moving in circles on the same spot

"You can't try and stop a seizure! That's now vow it works!" - Screamed Donnie back, Leo didn't seemed to snap from his trance - "Leo?"

Leo took a sharp breath as he was taken back to the land of living. He just nodded and remained in silence.

What would Splinter do?

Clear your mind, don't panic. There should be a solution out there.

"How long will it last?" - he asked, didn't liking how his voice sounded

"Mere seconds or several minutes, it depends" - said Donnie, with a hand on your back as your spasms continued - "They'll probably be a little disoriented, so don't push them"

Tense minutes passed, and the spasms that traveled down your body slowly ceased, and they practically exhaled a common sigh of relief.

"[S/n], can you hear me?" - asked Donnie

Raphael was about to say something, but the sound of sirens out everyone in alert.

"Fuck" - grunted Raphael as Donnie froze on his place while trying to lift you

"Can we move them?" - asked Leo, looking around for an exit

"Not recomendable, but in this case…" - started Donnie, only to be interrupted when Leo put one of your arms around his neck and make a lever movement to carry you - "Or you can you just that"

"Let's go" - Leo make a move to put you in a more comfortable position

You were joking around and laughing just a moment ago…

How did things turn out so bad…?

[kurishiri]

william v.s. darius . . . william rex END 🌹

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— cw: a bit suggestive at the end.

(I——)

Kate: Will, I have faith in your hunch, and I want to support you, so I’ll go with you.

Upon hearing my answer, Will smiled in satisfaction.

Darius: Indeed, I also think the number one member of Crown would be bound to choose the correct path.

D: I’ll leave the rest to you guys then. I’ve had more than enough fun here in town and at the festival.

D: But before I go, would you be so kind as to tell me this one last thing, William?

Will responded with a questioning look, to which Darius’ smile deepened.

Darius: In Crown — and all the Cursed ones at that — you are among the top of the top.

D: I’m sure if the mood struck you, you could have the whole world kneel before you with your ability alone,

D: and you could destroy the root of evil as well, yes?

D: Yet, here you are now, serving Her Majesty and working for Crown.

D: On top of that, I’m sure like today, these evils will come round again and again, no matter if you crush it to pieces.

D: My mind just can’t seem to wrap around it.

D: I mean, just now, when we were chasing and closing in on that child, with one command you could easily——

William: Then I would be left on the short end.

Darius: ...And what does that mean?

William: It’s exactly as you say: I could easily make everyone kneel before me with a single command.

W: But, I believe not doing so——

Will turned to me, and I nodded in return.

Kate: Will holds a deep love for people’s freedoms.

K: One is their own master. Other people should not trample on that... that is what Will thinks.

Darius: ...Such is the wish of the ‘Self-Righteous Monarch’ then.

D: I feel I’m coming to understand what you mean when you say ‘unraveling a mystery’ now. ——Nonetheless, I had lots of fun today.

He left us a smile that resembled that of an angel, before heading off.

While running down the alley Will had chosen, I spotted some movement from a place hidden from view.

Kate: ...Seems like that child.

He was ravenously stuffing his cheeks there, and I approached him with Will.

Slightly dirty boy: ! It’s you guys... dammit! You just don’t give up, do you? What’s it to you guys anyway!

The boy we had been chasing wiped the fruit juice that stained his mouth with his sleeve as he bristled at us.

Kate: We’re sorry if we have the wrong person but, do you have my things with you?

Slightly dirty boy: ...I got no idea what you’re saying.

As though hiding the bulge in his pockets, the boy crouched, feigning ignorance——

William: We have no intention to complain about what you did in and of itself.

W: But, I do have one thing I want to ask you.

W: ——Why do you yourself want those things?

Slightly dirty boy: Urgh...

The boy’s back jolted with a start, seemingly shaken.

William: Would you tell us how you really feel? Do you truly wish to continue living like this?

Will’s voice was quiet, and in response, the boy raised his head.

Just moments before, his gaze had a sharp edge to it, but now he was pursing his lips, which started to tremble, and——

Tears started to fall.

Slightly dirty boy: ...hic, what... what other choice do I got though... hic, this is... just my job...

Slightly dirty boy: And yet... the guys who paid me, hic, they... they’re all gone...

Slightly dirty boy: And since then I was alone... [sniffle] I ate alone... and... I had no other choice but to do this... just to live... [sniffle]

William: So that is to say you don’t want to continue doing this?

Slightly dirty boy: Isn’t... isn’t that obvious... hic, doing these kinds of things... I don’t enjoy doing them at all...

Slightly dirty boy: ...but... if I don’t... I might starve to death... so...

William: If your heart wishes to free yourself of this situation,

He extended his hand.

William: then you can take my hand.

Slightly dirty boy: ...Huh?

The boy’s eyes, wet from tears, stared straight at Will, as though trying to find if he was telling the truth...

Slightly dirty boy: .........is it okay if I... believe... you...?

William: That’s up to you to decide as well.

—— Time skip; evening city ——

William: If you take this carriage, I imagine you will be able to find the help to set your heart free.

W: Of course, whether you ride it is also up to what your heart says.

Slightly dirty boy: ...Then, could I study?

William: Of course, if you don’t tire of it first.

Slightly dirty boy: Yippee! There are so many things I want to learn about! ——ah.

I looked on with a smile when the boy’s sparkling eyes met with mine.

Slightly dirty boy: ...And I’m sorry, miss. Here, I’ll give this back.

With an awkward look, he took my things from his pocket.

Kate: Thank you. They’re really important to me.

His expression seemed to brighten as he went in the carriage, and he continued waving back at us from within until he couldn’t see us anymore.

(I hope that boy’s future is just as bright... just like the skies today.)

Kate: It takes courage to accept what the voice in your heart says. But that boy managed to do so.

K: And it was thanks to you, Will.

When I looked next to me, Will looked back, his eyes dazzling.

William: I simply wanted to witness the moment he sets his heart free.

W: But it’s at these times that I always remember — the day I first caught a glimpse of your heart’s voice, that is.

Kate: ...And I as well. I remember the time you brought it out of me.

William: Hehe, so? What are the things my robin has safely gotten back?

Kate: Ah, this is... it caught my eye from a shop. I was thinking it looked like your eyes.

I took out a brooch, decorated with crimson red jewels, and put it on Will.

William: I’m happy to hear. I did have an inkling that it was a present for me though.

Kate: Hm? It could have also been for Darius too, you know?

William: I know that such would not be the case.

W: After all, you’ve only been looking at me, right? ——To the point I’m unable to question my own vanity.

W: I know exactly how you feel.

Kate: ...Is that because you’ve been looking at me, Will?

In lieu of an answer, his red eyes narrowed.

William: The truth is, I have also prepared a present for you. I believe I mentioned it before we left.

W: That ‘it is a reward for a very clever and discerning little robin.’

Kate: Huh? Wait... that wasn’t you sharing the details of...

William: That may be so, but there is something I want to give you, and only you. Before that, though...

The moment his hands made their way around my back, he whisked me away.

When we were in an alley where not many people were around, my eyes met with Will’s, my back on the wall.

William: I do always lend an ear to your desires, but... what would you like to do, right now?

Seeing him smile so up close was so captivating, it took my breath away.

The blood red eyes that peered into me gave off a bewitching light.

And, tempted by that, my heart was dragged out in an instant.

Kate: I... want to kiss you.

Those blood red eyes narrowed even more as they stopped at my lips, before he slowly came closer.

Kate: ngh... haa...

He took his time exploring my mouth, and I could no longer think of anything or anyone but Will.

When we parted, I swallowed my saliva, wanting to hold onto any traces of the sensation his tongue left behind.

Kate: ...I... I want more of you.

K: Not just your heart, but your body too.

William: Hehe, your selfish desires are a reward for me as well.

W: Let’s take our time to enjoy what comes after the festival, just the two of us.

to be continued…

will vs darius jude vs nica alfons vs ring

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[mirims1997]

A Line Crossed

Summary: Following the Pr written statement released by Ashlyn, Bellingham’s new love interest, Jude Bellingham finds himself in the midst of media scrutiny. In an attempt to save his image, his mom hires a sharp Pr agent who takes over to fix Jude’s tarnished reputation and along the way ends up mending his heart.

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Chapter 2: Mutual (Dis)like?

Sitting alone with Jude and Denise in a conference room usually exclusive for HR is beyond nerve-wrecking. I go through the pages provided by my Media researcher silently as Denise scrolls through her phone and Jude sends daggers my way. I can understand the apparent dislike but he is too relentless with it. I lift my head, hold his gaze for a second, a poor attempt at making peace after that tense first interaction, and smile. He reciprocates the gaze but not the smile. I hold his gaze a tad longer and something almost imperceptible shifts in his face as he scratches his newly grown beard and looks away.

“Ashlyn Castro, can you elaborate on how you met and the nature of your relationship?”

This seems to snap Denise out of her reveries as she puts down her phone, glances at me then at Jude expectantly. His eyes meet mine in a mastered nonchalance, something I am quite familiar with.

“We met at a night club. She approached me. I liked her physique. Slept with her 4 times in a row in one night. Liked the experience enough to reach out again. Yeah. Great in bed, she is.” I scoff internally at the disgusting display of male ego and at how typical of a narrative this story makes: a footballer falling for a model because of how attractive she looks and how well she fucks.

“is the nature of the relationship you have now what you had in mind at the start or is it collateral damage?” I had to ask, because I cannot seem to place this man in a clear cut category and that doesn’t sit well with me. For once, I can feel nerves emanating from him. He doesn’t feel comfortable disclosing that in front of his mother.

“Ms Bellingham, can we have a moment of privacy?” Denise’s eyes widen at my bluntness but she collects her bag, moves past me and in a surprising gesture, squeezes my shoulder on her way out.

Now sitting alone with just Jude, the room made for a full board of agents seems a lot tighter. He doesn’t answer me for a while. Instead, he stares me down once again so intensely I can feel the heat of his gaze warm the back of my neck. He stands up, moves from his seat at the far end of the table across from me and saunters to the closest spot possible, the chair next to mine. He sits down, turns towards me, manspreads and speaks in a voice much lower and rougher. “You asked my mother to leave. That got me comfortable, you know? I hope you can deal with how at ease I can be under the right circumstances.” His attempt at throwing me off my game is quite interesting. What I cannot see is why he would try at all. Was it my domineering “sit down” that annoyed him so much or the loss of control my question brought him? I have two options and my choice will be decisive when it comes to the nature of the rest of our transaction. It’s either I set rigid limits, keep him at arms length and by extension have him be guarded and uncooperative or I play by a different set of rules and I get what I want. I can feel his stare burning my side profile as I look forward and contemplate on how to proceed with him. What throws me off and makes me admittedly nervous is the twisted effect he seems to have on me. How is it that I am under his scrutiny while my job is to have him under mine? Jude seems to be more assertive and commanding than I gave him credit for. I turn my chair so abruptly towards him and he doesn’t see it at all because his eyebrows lift so slightly and he lets out a breath I didn’t know he was holding this whole time.

“Jude. I can deal with everything. That is why I am here and not one of my 85 colleagues. Now, how do you want this to go? You answer my question and we build on that or you continue this poor nonchalant act and I get information, be it right or wrong, my own way?” For once, Jude’s face consorts in a genuine smile. I can feel a blush creep up my cheeks.

“For someone young as you seem to be, you sure have a knack for getting things your own way. Do you not? As for your question. It was neither. It is true that I did not want to date Ashlyn but I did want to continue sleeping with her. She satisfies me plenty and her moans tell me I do the same.” What a peacock! I can feel my blush intensify at how casual and shameless he is about everything, talking about intimacy as one would about weather or the price of petrol.

“So you want to continue having that with her but under the guise of a relationship? Does she consent to this?”

“She does. It is mutually beneficial for both of us. I get the judgment-free sex. She gets the fame and the privilege of being Jude Bellingham’s girlfriend. Win win? Right?” He grins at me like he wasn’t straight out plotting my death with his eyes few minutes ago. Sierra would absolutely eat this up.

“I will call your mom back in. I believe I have everything I need.” I stand up to gather my things and he just sits there, back at it with following my every move without a care about being caught staring. I exist the room with his eyes now stuck inside my head.

————————————————————————-

“JUDE freaking Bellingham? That’s why they called for? Bernando is fuming he wasn’t picked and I am too but for totally different reasons! He is so hot. You are so lucky! What does he smell like? I bet he is minty!” Sierra squeals in my ear the moment I come back to our shared office.

“Sierra, stop squealing. You are 31!” Not even that shut her up. “Age is just a number babe. How is he like? Do you reckon he could get us tickets at the Bernabeu? 5 years working in Madrid and I’ve never been!”

“He pretends to be a nice and charming lad, but he is conceited and thinks he can bend the world and wind to his wishes. A typical a list celebrity. This is my own judgment so far. Nothing else I can disclose about him or why he is here. Sierra, protocol.” That seems to be enough to keep her silent for the next few minutes.

Bernando is a totally different story. We cross paths in the hallway on my way out and he pretends to be busy on his phone to avoid any communication with me. Another great win today.

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Finding Cookie the moment I unlock the door is perhaps the only normal and grounding thing about today and everyday. I immediately reach for her and she climbs my legs and meows her way to my arms. “We met Jude Bellingham today kitten. And he is an A list asshole.” I carry her to her spot on the couch and leave her there. I freshen up, prepare a chamomile tea and open the balcony door. Golden hour, my favorite time of the day. It is mind-blowing how it is never less beautiful than the day before it. A creature of habit, I often find myself craving to be loved the same way I admire the golden hour, never decreasing with days, always worshipped with the same intensity.

One of the best perks about my apartment is that even though it is as dull as they get on the inside, its view is beyond magnificent. A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought that I’d be here in Madrid, looking at the city from above, in my own place whose rent I can easily afford with the money I make myself from working at my dream company and excelling at my job.

My phone interrupts my reveries. I can hear Cookie scurrying away. My cat hates my ringtone and runs away everytime my phone rings near her. I feel the same but I, unlike her, just can’t take such liberties.

“Mrs. Renée, I hope all is well?” Mrs Renée is the kind of boss who nearly never calls you outside of working hours, which is something I tremendously appreciate but which also means that it must be extremely important.

“Ms Gibran, I am calling to congratulate you on your great success in securing the Bellinghams. They seem to think you are the perfect fit for what they are looking for. However, I must inform you that Denise would be expecting you to be on call more often than we are used to. This means that invitations to certain events, daily emails, calls and regular updates in the context of meetings are part of your job. Our company will be flexible when it comes to your office schedule as this task will be your priority moving on. Do you have any questions or qualms?”

“Not at all. I would love to help the company as much as possible. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Good. The Bellinghams have your number, your socials and your email. This will facilitate your communication.” I nearly gasp at the word socials, because despite the fact that our line of work is basically all about that, I try my best to keep my socials out of it. I guess there goes my privacy too.

“Oh and Miriam, you will be meeting Ashlyn in the next few days. I believe you made this request?”

“Yes I did. Thank you for cooperating.”

“Perfect. Good night” because I could get a response in, Renée has already hung up. The realization that I will technically be the Bellinghams’ shadow for fuck knows how long hit me like a track. I need to take a walk.

————————————————————————

Madrid’s streets are always busy. At times it suffocates, and at others, it liberates me. I head to a small pastry shop that sells the best Ensaimada. To reduce anxiety, I’ve learned, sugar is the way. I pick up two Ensaimada and an espresso and continue my walk to my secret spot, La Quinta de los Molinos park. I come here often to find my much needed peace and quiet. It is usually empty, especially at night and that thrills me. An intrusive thought throws me off. All of a sudden, Jude is in my head. I think of him and how his fame has robbed him of a lot of simple pleasures like eating an ensaimada on a good night in a random park.

I pull out my sketchbook and start drawing. I often indulge in non reflective sketches. I let my pencil does the drawing and the thinking. Without any conscious decision, I find myself carefully carving Jude’s jawline. His bone structure, majestic noise, and piercing eyes make of him any painter’s dream muse.

A ball hits my head so fast I feel disoriented. I close my notebook and prepare to rage against whoever came between my art and I.

“¡Madre mía, qué carajo…”

“Sorry Miriam, mistimed my pass.” This cannot be real. What the hell is he doing here? Did I just manifest him through art? What the hell, universe?

I lift my head slowly and Jude is just standing there wearing a hoodie big enough to cover his entire face and my embarrassment if he is willing to take it.

“Darling, would you care to join me for a drill?”

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Hello Jude Girlies! A new update! Let me know what you think of this story and this new chapter! Looking forward to reading your comments ❤️

Until the next update! 🤍